I remember our last conversation as vividly as if it happened yesterday. She was sitting on her hospital bed, her frail fingers softly weaving through my hair.

“Promise me something, my little moon,” she whispered.

“Anything, Mama,” I said, swallowing back my tears.

“Promise me you’ll never let anyone dim yor light. You’re special, Ava. So special.”

She didn’t leave me with much — just a few photographs, the gentle scent of her jasmine perfume lingering on her scarves, and a trust fund she set up before she passed.

“This is for Ava,” she had told my father and my grandparents firmly. “For her education, her dreams, and her future. Promise me she’ll always have it.”