My brother’s prom suit took my mother four months to pay for.
She started saving in February, long before the dance, long before the store windows filled with glossy posters of smiling teenagers in tuxedos and satin dresses, long before Jesse pretended he did not care what he wore.
I did not know any of that then.
I was 12 years old, which meant I noticed only the things that touched my own small world. Homework. Snacks. Television. Whether my older brother was going to embarrass me in front of his friends.
Years later, my father told me the truth.
My mother had tucked away a few dollars from the grocery money every week. She bought cheaper coffee, stretched dinners with rice and potatoes, and skipped replacing her winter coat even though the lining had torn under one arm.
