I grew up quickly. While other kids at school complained about not getting the newest video game console, I learned how to stretch meals, how to mend my own clothes, and how to keep the apartment spotless because I knew Mom was exhausted when she returned from work. I studied hard, fueled by a fierce determination to escape the cycle of betrayal and scarcity that had been forced upon us.

Years passed, and though life was never easy, we carved something meaningful out of nothing. Mom eventually became the manager of that same diner. She never remarried—her trust in love had been broken too deeply—but she poured every ounce of her heart into supporting me. She was the one clapping the loudest at my high school graduation, the one who held me when I cried over my first heartbreak, the one who took out loans so I could attend college when scholarships didn’t cover everything.