Tessa had spent years dreaming about ballet. When a studio finally accepted her into its advanced teen program, she hugged me so tightly I could barely breathe.
“Please, Mom. I want to go so badly!”
I wanted to say yes before she even finished the sentence. She had worked for that chance without expensive private lessons, without fancy summer programs, and mostly without complaining.
The problem was the studio.
It was almost fifty minutes from our house, and getting there by public transportation meant changing buses twice. Classes ended after eight at night.
My husband, Graham, and I both worked late. I couldn’t let Tessa make that trip alone after dark, no matter how badly she wanted it.
For nearly two weeks, we tried everything. I asked coworkers. Graham checked with neighbors. We even looked into changing our schedules, but neither of us could guarantee three evenings every week.
