After every shift, I passed the boutique on Main Street slowly, almost without thinking. The dresses in the window felt distant — elegant, untouchable, like they belonged to another world. I wore the same black polo every day, just another cashier at the food mart. But in my mind, I could feel fabric, sketch patterns, dream designs. I didn’t just want to wear those dresses — I wanted to make them.
I brought a cake to Nancy’s — a customer who’d become a friend. She lived in a beautiful home and had a closet that looked like a fashion museum. She always believed in me. One day, she noticed the old key I wore around my neck — a mystery from my past. She recognized it: a ceremonial key from Hawthorne Savings.
We went to the bank the next day. I was terrified. But when I whispered my name — “June” — the banker smiled and led me to a private room. My key opened a deposit box created the day I was born. Inside was a letter. A letter from my mother.
She hadn’t abandoned me. She’d been sick. She left everything she had in that account for me. Her final line pointed me to a cemetery at 42 Cypress Lane. There, under a willow tree, I found her name: Lena Maynard. Loving Mother. Fierce Spirit.
I cried. I thanked her.
With the money she left, I bought sewing machines, fabric, and hope. I made my first dress — plum with ivory buttons. Nancy submitted it to a fashion showcase without telling me. I got in.
This time, I wasn’t staring through a glass window. I was walking through the door.
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