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it meant. When I guessed my name—”June”—as the security answer, the vault opened. Inside was a letter from my birth
mother, written in delicate handwriting. She hadn’t abandoned me—she had loved me deeply and left me everything she had.
Tears streamed as I read her final words and the address she left: 42 Cypress Lane. Nancy and I drove to the cemetery beneath
a weeping willow, where I found her headstone. I whispered, “I love you too, Mama,” and felt wrapped in a breeze like her
embrace. That moment gave me peace and purpose, grounding the dream I’d always had in something real.
Weeks later, I used the inheritance to buy fabric and a sewing machine. My first handmade dress stood proudly in my
apartment—deep plum, just like I imagined. Nancy surprised me with an invitation to a fashion showcase; she’d submitted my
designs. As I held the invite, I felt my mother’s presence again.
This time, I wasn’t just dreaming—I was finally stepping through the door.
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