My mom worked as a secretary at RSD Financial, a job she’d held since before I was born. Every morning, she’d iron her clothes with precision, apply her makeup carefully, and head out with a smile that hid how tired she really was.
“Liam, there’s dinner in the fridge,” she’d say, kissing my forehead before leaving. “And don’t forget your math homework!”
We weren’t rich by any means. Our apartment was small, and most of my clothes came from the same thrift stores where Mom found her professional outfits.
But I never felt like I was missing anything, because she somehow made magic happen on a secretary’s salary.
On my 13th birthday, she surprised me with the laptop I’d been eyeing for months.
“How did you afford this?” I asked in disbelief.
She winked. “I’ve been saving a little each week since last year. Your grades deserve it.”
What I didn’t know then was that she’d picked up weekend filing work to make it happen.
