Morning light slipped through our kitchen blinds, painting soft yellow stripes across the table where Aria sat counting her crumpled bills for the third time.
I could not stop watching her small fingers smooth each wrinkled dollar like it was something sacred.
Six months of saving had come down to that neat little pile.
Her small fingers smooth each wrinkled dollar.
“Eighty-two and forty cents, Mom,” Aria announced, beaming. “I did it.”
“You really did, sweetheart.”