Mia came rushing across the gravel parking lot before I had even turned off the car. She threw open the passenger door and wrapped her arms around me. After three weeks away, my 13-year-old smelled of sunscreen, lake water, and the unmistakable scent of camp laundry soap. Her braid was coming undone, a handmade bracelet circled her wrist, and for a moment, she looked happier than I had seen her in years.
I had worked four extra Saturdays and two Sundays just to cover the camp fee, which cost more than our monthly mortgage payment. Mia had dreamed about attending this camp since she was 10, not long after we lost her father, Michael. Seeing her so happy had made every exhausting overtime shift worth it.
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