Every night after my shift, I’d pass the boutique on Main Street — not really walking, more like drifting. The dresses behind the glass felt out of reach: elegant, untouchable, mocking in their perfection. I wore the same black polo and name tag each day, my reflection small and invisible beside them.
But I didn’t just want to wear those gowns — I wanted to make them. That dream lived in quick sketches on receipts and scraps of clearance fabric. Money, though, was a wall I couldn’t climb. Until Nancy.
We met at the store. She smiled easily, talked about brunch flowers, then about life. She invited me into her world — a closet full of untouched designer dresses, shoes like museum pieces. She offered me a gown once, but I couldn’t accept. I didn’t want to wear someone else’s dream.
Then I showed her the key I always wore — a brass thing I’d had since I was a baby. She recognized it as a deposit box key. The next day, we walked into a marble-floored bank, and everything changed.
The key unlocked an account opened 33 years ago — on my birthday. The man handed me a letter addressed in faded ink: “My dearest June.” It was from my mother. Dying young, alone, she’d left everything she had for me — love, money, and a chance.
The last line of the letter pointed me to an address: 42 Cypress Lane. Nancy drove me there. It was a grave under a willow tree. My mother’s name carved into stone: Lena Maynard, Loving Mother. Fierce Spirit.
Weeks later, my apartment filled with fabric and sewing machines. The first dress I made stood proud — deep plum, ivory buttons. Nancy submitted my work to a fashion show in Des Moines. I got in.
This time, I wasn’t just looking through the window.
I walked through the door.
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