At 7, Mom constantly took me to a “dance show.”

The place was dark with red couches, but oddly, I have no memories of the shows.

I’d pass out immediately at the start and wake up in the morning. 20 years later, I stumbled across one of her old notebooks while clearing out boxes in the attic.

On the pages were dates, each one matching those nights I thought were for “dance shows.”

Next to them were notes like meeting confirmed, extra shift, and payment collected.

It finally made sense—she wasn’t taking me to shows at all.

She had been working late, juggling side jobs to keep us afloat after Dad left.

With no babysitter, she brought me along and let me sleep while she worked.

Those couches weren’t for watching performances—they were just places for me to rest.

I sat there with the notebook in my hands, tears stinging my eyes.

As a kid, I thought those nights were strange.

As an adult, I understood they were proof of how much love she carried—shielding me from her struggles,

letting me dream peacefully while she sacrificed in silence.

What I once saw as a mystery became one of the clearest memories of her devotion.

She never told me the truth because she didn’t want me to worry.

And in that way, she gave me not just sleep,

but the comfort of childhood itself.