teenager, still reeling from her parents' divorce. It was an easy role to feign. The house was a

n just the awkwardness of a new step-parent situation; it was a

ther cooked-because Karel did not cook. My efforts were met with a wall of icy silence. She would look thr

e the path of least resistance. He would publicly side with Karel,

s thinking," he' d snap if I so much

an extra hundred-dollar bill. "Here," he' d mutte

ert into a lifeline for my mother. The self-disgust was a small price to pay. I carefully folded the cash and hid it in a l

s new life, I felt a flicker of hope. School was an escape. It was a neutral territory, a p

op university, study law, and become financiall

r car pulled out of the garage, I was out the door. I took a series of buses, the

of her stole the air from my lungs. In just a few short weeks, the change was already visible

I cal

mpled. She dropped the grocery bags, and an apple

welled in her eyes, but she didn't rush to hug me. She just

art aching. I reached out and took her

rry," I

l against my skin. It was still soft, not yet ravaged by the harsh c

cern. Her own pain was secondary to mine. That was my

blow. I nodded, unable to sp

bling with a desperate hope. "Maybe I can find a little apartment

it felt. It was a false hope that woul

d gently but fir

her eyes dim, and I

n years. The best you can get right now is minimum wage. Your apartment is a month-to-month leas

just looked at me, confused and heartbroken, thinking I was tal

ped in defeat. She

as my

ut a thick envelope. "This is for yo

me, her brow furrowed. "Blake, what

ed. "It' s eight thousand

his?" she asked, her

e. A very generous one. T

o my hands. "No. This is for you. For

firm. "You do. Mom, listen to me. Thi

me, her confus

and urgent. "You need to work for yourself. Think. What

. "I don' t know... I'

loves your cooking. Your lasagna, your apple pies, th

ory, of pride, c

ou can start small, from your kitchen. This money is your seed capital. To buy ingredients, to get

future I had seen her fail to achieve

weren' t tears of sorrow. They were tears of sho

hing the envelope to her chest.

her shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of her, a scent of home that the sterile pentho

voice muffled by my hair.

oney, but I refused. After a small argument, we compromised. She kept

a little lighter. As I watched her walk away, her back w

this new life, I felt like I was doing mor