That night, I sat in our darkened living room watching Michael sleep on the couch, his face still puffy from crying. He’d fallen asleep clutching his father’s reading glasses, and in that moment, I made a promise that would define the next three decades of my life.
Michael would never know want. Michael would never feel fear. Michael would have everything I’d been denied as a child—security, opportunity, unconditional love.
I kept that promise. God help me, I kept it too well.
The first year nearly killed me. I worked sixteen-hour days, cleaning office buildings before dawn, then rushing to my afternoon job at a real estate office where I filed paperwork and answered phones for twelve dollars an hour. At night, I studied—property law, market analysis, anything that might give me an edge in a business dominated by men with family money and inherited connections.
Michael never saw me cry. When he asked why we ate peanut butter sandwiches for dinner three nights in a row, I told him we were saving money for something special. When the electricity got shut off, I made it into a camping adventure. When other kids had new clothes and he wore thrift store finds, I convinced him that vintage was cooler.
