Bills sat beside my mother’s pill organizer.
One night, I found her looking at the sketch.
« You still want that one, baby? » I asked.
Ava snapped the notebook shut. « It’s dumb. »
« No, it isn’t. »
« Mom, it’s custom-made-dress dumb. We have real bills. »
That hurt more than begging would have.
« You still want that one, baby? »
The next day, I picked up extra shifts at the diner.
When Mom saw me counting tips into a jar that evening, she rolled closer in her wheelchair.
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