my friend Nancy saw it and froze. “That looks like a ceremonial key from Hawthorne Savings,” she said. “It might open a deposit box.” Skeptical but curious, we went to the bank. My heart pounded. I gave them the key… and the security answer that somehow felt right: “June.” My name. To my shock, it worked. They led me to a small room, where they handed me an old envelope addressed in careful handwriting — to me. Inside was a letter from my birth mother. She hadn’t abandoned me. She had died of cancer just days after I was born and had left behind everything she could — her savings,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.
