The money comes in, lingers for a day, then disappears again.
But my six-year-old daughter, Lily, makes it all feel almost worth it.
She’s the reason my alarm goes off—and the reason I actually get up.
My mom lives with us. She doesn’t move easily anymore and uses a cane, but she still braids Lily’s hair and makes oatmeal like it’s a five-star hotel breakfast.
She remembers everything my tired brain keeps forgetting.
She knows which stuffed animal is out of favor this week, which classmate “made a face,” which new ballet move has taken over our living room.
Because ballet isn’t just Lily’s hobby. It’s her language.
When she’s nervous, her toes point.
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