her love, her dreams — all for me. The letter ended with one line: “Go to 42 Cypress Lane. I want you to see where I found peace.” Nancy and I drove there. It was a quiet cemetery beneath a willow tree. Her stone read: Lena Maynard, Loving Mother. Fierce Spirit. I knelt by her grave and whispered, “I love you too, Mama.” With the money she left, I bought fabric, a sewing machine,

and started designing. The first dress — deep plum with ivory buttons — stood in my apartment like a dream made real. Nancy entered me into a fashion showcase. “You’re in,” she said. “You’re going to Des Moines.”I looked at the invitation, pressed it to my heart, and knew: I wasn’t the girl staring through the glass anymore. I was the woman stepping through the door — carrying my mother’s legacy in every stitch.