All summer, I had watched my daughter work for that money.
While her friends spent Saturdays swimming at the lake, Lily carried breakfast plates through a crowded café and cleaned syrup from places syrup should never have reached.
She came home smelling like coffee, fryer oil, and pancake batter.
Every evening, she counted her tips at the same kitchen table where we were sitting now.
She skipped movie nights because she had early shifts.
After one eleven-hour Saturday, she collapsed onto the couch and announced,
“If I ever own a restaurant, chairs will be illegal.”
She wanted that car badly.
And it wasn’t some temporary teenage obsession.
A car meant independence.
She could drive herself to school.
Get to work without borrowing mine.
Stop depending on friends for rides.
And although she rarely said it out loud, driving was one of those milestones that constantly reminded both of us Michael wasn’t there.
When Lily was nine, Michael once let her sit behind the wheel of his parked truck.
“I’m teaching her early,” he announced.
I nearly dropped the groceries.
“You absolutely are not.”
Lily grinned.
“Dad said yes.”
Michael immediately raised both hands.
“Dad has reconsidered.”
Lily still told that story.
Now three months of work had disappeared.
“All of it?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Four thousand dollars?”
Another nod.
I kept my voice low because I knew if I started shouting, she would stop talking.
“Who did you give it to?”
Lily wiped one eye.
“Mom, I need you to understand something first.”
“No. I need a name first.”
She hesitated.
“It’s not one name.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
She took a breath.
“Seventeen names.”
