I opened it.
It was a drawing of our house.
There were flowers in the yard, a bright yellow sun, and three people standing beside the front door.
Me.
Lily.
And Nora.
Beneath the drawing, in Lily’s careful handwriting, were six words.
“This is what being rich means.”
I stared at the picture.
My eyes filled with tears.
For years, my family had measured success by money, possessions, and social status.
They had laughed at my choices.
They had teased my daughter.
They had believed that our modest life meant we had failed.
But Nora had known better.
She could have lived in a mansion. She could have filled her closet with designer clothes. She could have told everyone how powerful and wealthy she was.
Instead, she chose an ordinary house, a kitchen full of laughter, and a little girl who believed her mother could make anything beautiful with a needle and thread.
