I was wrong.
I worked two jobs to give my son the future his now-deceased father never got to see. Thirty years later, Jason sat in my kitchen and told me to move out of my house so he could sell it.
I agreed.
But only because he had no idea what I planned to do next.
I became a single mother when Jason was three, after his father, Daniel, died in a car accident on his way home from work.
One moment, I was complaining about a leaky faucet.
Then, a police officer appeared on my porch, his hat pressed to his chest.
Jason was standing behind me in dinosaur pajamas.
“Why does that man look sad?” he asked.
I had no answer.
That night, Jason slept curled up against my ribs while I stared at the ceiling and made a promise.
He wouldn’t lose his future just because we lost Daniel.
I meant it.
In reality, that promise meant opening the bakery at five in the morning and cleaning the offices until midnight.
