The engagement ring lay on my nightstand, a circle of white gold and diamonds that, just yesterday, had seemed like a perfect symbol of happiness. Now, as I stared at it in the gathering twilight of my small apartment, I felt nothing but a strange, hollow relief. A peculiar emotion for a bride, just twenty-four hours before her wedding.
Outside, the lights of Chicago began to flicker on, but I didn’t bother turning on a lamp. I just sat in the semi-darkness, trying to process the wreckage of the evening. My phone buzzed violently for what must have been the fifteenth time. Mark. I silenced it without looking, then typed a short, final message: Don’t call. We’ll talk in the morning. Then I turned it off completely.
My mother arrived half an hour later. I hadn’t called her, but she always knew. A mother’s intuition isn’t a myth; it’s a quiet, unbreakable signal. She walked in, still in her coat, and wrapped her arms around me. She just held me as I sat motionless, staring at a single point on the wall, until the rigidity in my shoulders began to soften.
“Tell me everything, honey,” she finally whispered, sitting beside me on the sofa.
I took her hand, warm and familiar, the fine lines on her skin a map of a life spent working as a grocery store clerk. A sudden pang of guilt hit me. Just last month, she’d taken out a small loan to help with my dowry—linens, dishes, the small things for a new life. A daughter getting married is a big deal, she’d said, waving away my protests.
“Mom,” I began, my voice cracking. “There’s not going to be a wedding.”
She didn’t gasp or wring her hands. She simply squeezed my hand tighter. “What happened?”
And so I told her. Slowly, meticulously, starting from the very beginning.
It started the night before, with a phone call from Mark around eight o’clock. I had just gotten home from an evening shift at the hospital, my legs aching with a deep, bone-weary fatigue. All I wanted was to collapse on the sofa and not move until morning. Tomorrow was my last day of work before the wedding; the day after, we were supposed to be at City Hall. My mind was a chaotic swirl of checklists: pick up the dress, confirm the flowers, one last call with the restaurant manager.
“Hey, beautiful,” Mark’s voice was unnaturally cheerful. “How was the shift?”
“Exhausting,” I sighed. “Mrs. Gable in room seven needed three new IV lines, and she’s terrified of needles. Took half an hour just to calm her down. Then Maria got sick, and I had to cover the rest of her shift. Mark, I’m completely drained.”
“I get it, sunshine. Listen, something’s come up. My mom called.”
A knot of apprehension tightened in my stomach, an immediate, instinctive reaction. In the year and a half we’d been together, his mother, Eleanor DeLancy, had never shown me an ounce of genuine warmth. There was politeness, yes, but it was a brittle, cold, and performative kind of civility. Whenever we visited their pristine apartment overlooking Millennium Park, she would greet me, offer tea, and ask about my work as if she were fulfilling an unpleasant social obligation. Her gaze would slide over me, analytical and critical, always finding a flaw—my shoes weren’t designer, my hairstyle was too simple, my conversation lacked sophistication.
I remembered our engagement party three months ago. She’d sat with a sour expression while my parents, beaming with joy, hugged us. My dad, a city bus driver his whole life, was so happy he had tears in his eyes. Eleanor had watched him with a barely concealed disdain. When my mom suggested celebrating at our place, Eleanor had pursed her lips and replied coldly, “We’re not accustomed to loud gatherings. A quiet, cultured dinner at a restaurant would be more appropriate.” She then named a place where a single entrée cost more than my weekly salary.
Mark never saw it, or perhaps, refused to see it. He adored his mother, called her three times a day, and treated her with a reverence usually reserved for saints. I understood. He was the only son, the man of the family since his father, Arthur, had long ago faded into his wife’s shadow. But sometimes it felt like Eleanor saw me not as a future daughter, but as a rival who was stealing her son.
“And what did your mom want?” I asked cautiously, perching on the edge of my sofa.
“She’s inviting us to dinner tomorrow night. At seven,” he said. “She wants to have one last special family evening before the wedding.”
Something inside me recoiled. “Mark, the day before the wedding? I have so much to do. I have to get my dress from the cleaners, help my mom with groceries. My grandmother is coming over to try on her outfit.”
“Please, Clara,” his voice took on a pleading tone. “It’s really important to her. She said she wants you to finally feel like a part of our family. She’s even cooking something special. She even got Jessica to come, even though she has a big meeting in the morning.”
Jessica. Mark’s older sister, a thirty-four-year-old executive at some international firm. Divorced, no kids, perpetually polished, with a wardrobe that cost more than my car. Her disdain for me was even more palpable than her mother’s. She looked at me as if I were a piece of furniture, responding to my attempts at conversation with monosyllabic grunts. I once overheard her telling Mark in the kitchen, “Are you sure about this? She’s from a completely different world. You’ll be bored of her in a year.”
I tried one last time. “Can’t we postpone? We could all get together after the wedding, when things aren’t so hectic.”
“Honey, please,” a familiar note of hurt crept into his voice. “It’s just one evening. A couple of hours. You know how important it is for her to do things the ‘right’ way. She wants to show you that we’re welcoming you into the family.”
Welcoming me into the family, I thought with a bitter, silent laugh. For eighteen months, I had tried. I’d helped Eleanor with her new smartphone, though she’d brushed me off, saying, “Jessica is better at these things.” I’d bought her thoughtful, carefully chosen gifts for every occasion, only to see a flicker of disappointment in her eyes. Too cheap. Too simple. Not our style.
Mark was oblivious to the cold war. To him, his mother was an ideal: intelligent, educated, a woman of culture. He was immensely proud that she’d studied languages in college and worked as a translator, traveling to Italy on business. That was decades ago, but Eleanor still peppered her speech with Italian phrases to showcase her supposed worldliness.
“Fine,” I sighed, defeated. “I’ll be there.”
“Great! Seven o’clock sharp. And honey, please dress up. Mom is going to a lot of trouble.”
Making an impression, I thought after we hung up. But for whom? Was she trying to impress me, or was I, once again, supposed to prove that I was worthy of her son?
The next day was a blur of anxious activity. I worked a short morning shift, then drove to the dry cleaners. My dress hung in a clear plastic bag—a simple, elegant cream-colored gown. My mom and I had spent two months searching for it. We’d visited five bridal shops, and I’d tried on dozens of dresses, wanting something beautiful but not extravagant. We found this one for two thousand dollars. My mom paid for half of it from her loan.
That evening, I spent an hour in front of the mirror. I wore a dark blue dress, the most expensive item in my modest wardrobe. “Classic and elegant,” the saleswoman had said. “Perfect for meeting the in-laws.” Now, I wondered if it was enough. Would they find fault again? I did my makeup, subtle but neat, and put on a pair of pearl earrings my grandmother had given me. A 27-year-old nurse, hardworking, decent, in love. Wasn’t that enough?
Mark arrived at quarter to seven, punctual as always. A trait his mother had instilled. When I got in the car, he smiled, but it was strained. “You look great,” he said, but I saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands gripped the wheel too tightly.
“You’re nervous,” I stated, not a question.
“No, of course not. It’s just… Mom has been planning this all day. She called three times to make sure we were coming.”
“Why wouldn’t we come?”
“No reason. You just know Mom. She likes everything to be perfect.”
We drove in silence. I watched the city lights blur past, a normal Wednesday evening for everyone else, but my stomach was in knots. “Mark,” I asked suddenly. “Why this dinner, right now? We’ve been there dozens of times. Why the day before the wedding?”
He shrugged, his eyes on the road. “She said she wants to talk to you. Heart-to-heart. So you know we’re all one family now.”
A heart-to-heart with Eleanor DeLancy? The woman who had never said a truly warm word to me. A thought, dark and unwelcome, crept into my mind. What if this is a trap? What if this is her last chance to put me in my place?
We pulled up to their high-rise building downtown, with its doorman and gated entrance. We rode the elevator in silence, my reflection in the mirrored walls showing a pale, tense woman. At their door on the ninth floor, Mark paused. “It’s going to be fine,” he said quietly. “She really wants you to have a nice time.”
He opened the door, and we stepped inside. The air smelled of something rich and unfamiliar. Eleanor greeted us in the foyer, dressed in an elegant beige suit, her hair perfectly coiffed, a string of pearls at her neck. At fifty-eight, she looked a decade younger.
“Mark, darling!” She beamed, hugging her son. Then she turned to me, her smile becoming a fraction colder. “Clara, come in.” Not honey, not sweetheart. Just Clara. Formal and dry.
“Good evening, Eleanor,” I said, handing her the bouquet of chrysanthemums I’d bought. “Thank you for inviting us.”
She took the flowers with her fingertips, as if they were slightly soiled. “Oh. How practical. Jessica, put these in some water.”
Jessica emerged from the living room, tall and severe in black slacks and a silk blouse. She gave me a dismissive glance that managed to take in my entire outfit and find it wanting. “Hi,” she said, taking the flowers and disappearing.
Eleanor’s eyes scanned my dress. “That’s a cute dress,” she said finally. “From a department store?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Yes.”
“I see,” she nodded, and in that simple gesture was a world of condescension. But I smiled and walked into the living room. The dinner that would change my life was about to begin.
The living room was furnished expensively and, to my eye, tastelessly. Heavy, dark wood furniture, a crystal chandelier that probably cost a year of my salary, and heavy burgundy drapes with gold tassels. The table was set for a state dinner: starched white linens, crystal glasses, and silver cutlery.
“Please, sit,” Eleanor commanded. Mark took the head of the table, with his mother at his right. Jessica sat across from me, her scrutinizing gaze making my skin prickle. Mark’s father, Arthur, emerged silently from his study. A stooped, quiet man with tired eyes, he nodded at me and took a seat at the far end, trying to make himself as small as possible.
“Arthur, bring the wine,” Eleanor said without turning her head. He rose silently and left. Mark didn’t even seem to notice. This dynamic was normal for them.
“So, the bride,” Jessica began, leaning back. “Getting nervous for the big day?”
“Of course,” I smiled. “It’s an important event.”
“Oh, very important,” she smirked. “Especially when you marry so… successfully.”
Heat flooded my face. Mark frowned but said nothing. Arthur returned with a bottle of Italian wine.
“Prosecco,” Eleanor announced with a horribly mangled Italian accent. “A friend brought it from Milan. The real thing, not what they sell in our stores.”
Nobody knew that I spoke fluent Italian. After high school, I’d worked as a waitress for two years, saving every penny. Then I went to Italy on an au pair program. I lived with a family, cared for their children, and learned the language. I stayed for another year, working as a nurse in a private clinic in Rome. Three years in Italy had made the language a part of me. I hadn’t mentioned it to Mark; he’d never asked, and I didn’t feel the need to boast. It was just a chapter of my past. But Eleanor, who knew a handful of phrases from a tourist guidebook, loved to show off her “erudition.”
“I was in Italy last year,” Jessica chimed in. “Milan, Rome, Florence. Exquisite cities. Have you ever been abroad, Clara?” The question was posed as if she already knew the answer.
“I have,” I answered calmly.
“Turkey? Mexico?” she smiled condescendingly.
“Italy.” I didn’t elaborate.
“Oh?” Eleanor’s interest was piqued. “As a tourist, I presume?”
“Yes, as a tourist,” I lied.
“Well, tourism is one thing,” Eleanor sighed. “But to live there, to work, to feel the culture… that is something else entirely. I did an internship in Rome in my youth, working as a translator at an exhibition. Unforgettable.” Her three-week trip as part of a delegation thirty-five years ago had, in her memory, become a multi-year immersion.
The dinner proceeded in a similar vein. The first course was a salad Eleanor declared was insalata made from a “little recipe from a Roman café.” Then came pasta with seafood, which she announced as spaghetti alle vongole, horribly mispronouncing vongole. Her every comment was a performance, a subtle but relentless campaign to highlight her sophistication and, by extension, my lack thereof.
“Do you cook, Clara?” Jessica asked innocently.
“Of course. The usual things. Casseroles, meatloaf, pies.”
“Meatloaf,” Jessica repeated with a smirk. “Well, I suppose Mark is used to a more… varied cuisine.”
“Mark loves my cooking,” he finally interjected.
“Potato and mushroom casserole,” Eleanor mused. “How… rustic. Well, I suppose that’s food, too.”
The condescension was suffocating. I felt the anger coiling in my stomach. Simple, homemade food was, to them, a sign of low breeding.
“Mom, don’t start,” Mark said quietly.
“Don’t start what?” she raised her eyebrows. “I am merely stating a fact. In our family, we appreciate gastronomy. It’s part of a proper upbringing.”
I remained silent. What could I say? That their idea of culture was simply a tool to belittle others? The conversation shifted to their expensive vacations, exclusive restaurants, and a wedding venue they’d heard of.
“What was the name of your place again?” Eleanor asked. “The Wave?”
“Yes, a small hall for fifty guests.”
“The Wave,” she repeated, exchanging a look with Jessica. “Never heard of it. A budget option, I take it?”
“Mom,” Mark said through gritted teeth. “It’s a perfectly nice restaurant. And Clara and I like it.”
“I’m sure you do, dear. I just thought you’d choose something more… presentable. So guests don’t think you’re having financial difficulties.”
“We’re not having financial difficulties!”
“Of course not,” Jessica smirked. “It’s just sensible. Why spend when you can save?”
I couldn’t take it anymore. “We just want a day that’s comfortable for us, with people we love, without all the pretentiousness.”
“Pretentiousness?” Eleanor’s voice went sharp. “An interesting choice of words. So, a wedding in a decent place is now pretentious?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean, girl?” She stared at me, her eyes filled with open hostility. “That we are all pretentious snobs, and you are a simple, honest working woman?”
“Eleanor, I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Don’t offend my mother,” Jessica said coldly. “She just wants what’s best for her brother.”
“I love Mark, and I will do everything to make him happy.”
“Love is wonderful,” Eleanor said. “But it’s not enough. One must also be suitable. On the same level.”
There it was. The unspoken truth, finally laid bare.
“Mom, that’s enough!” Mark stood up. “We came for dinner, not for an interrogation.”
“Sit down, Mark,” his mother commanded. And he sat. Like an obedient child, he sat back down. I stared at him in disbelief. He wouldn’t even defend me.
“You see, Clara,” Eleanor continued, her voice now soft and almost gentle, which was more terrifying than a shout. “I have nothing against you personally. But Mark is different. He’s used to a certain standard of living, a certain social circle. I’m afraid that in a year, you simply won’t be able to keep up. And then it will be painful for you both.”
The room fell silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Suddenly, Arthur, who had been silent all evening, spoke. “We are snobs.”
Everyone turned to him. His head was down, but his hands were trembling.
“What did you say?” Eleanor’s face went white.
“I said, we are snobs,” he repeated, looking up at her. “You and Jessica. You think you’re better than everyone else. But in reality…”
“Be quiet,” she hissed.
“In reality, you’re just an ordinary woman who spent three weeks in Italy thirty-five years ago,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “And you’ve been dining out on it ever since.”
“I said, BE QUIET!”
Silence descended again. Arthur lowered his head. Eleanor’s face was blotchy with rage. “Mark,” she said, turning to her son. “Take your father to his study. Let him calm down.”
Mark rose, placed a hand on his father’s shoulder, and led him away. I was left alone with the two women.
“Well,” Eleanor said, pouring herself more wine. “Now you’ve seen what happens when men meddle in things that don’t concern them. I hope you don’t turn Mark into a weakling like his father.”
I didn’t answer. I just looked at her and knew this would never end. Mark wouldn’t protect me. He would always, always choose his mother. The evening was just beginning, but I already wanted to run. The worst, however, was yet to come.
Mark returned a few minutes later, his face tense and guilty. He sat down, avoiding my eyes.
“Dad’s just tired,” he said to his mother.
“Of course he is,” she replied dryly. “After such a performance.”
The silence was excruciating. Jessica was typing on her phone, pointedly ignoring me. “Mark,” I whispered, “maybe we should go.”
“But Mom made dessert,” he mumbled. “She’ll be offended.”
“And you’re not offended? By what she said to me?”
“Clara, please understand, Mom just worries about me. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t accept you.”
“Doesn’t accept me?” I couldn’t believe my ears. “Mark, she explicitly said I wasn’t good enough for you.”
“She didn’t say that.”
“She did! You just don’t want to hear it!”
Jessica looked up from her phone. “You know, Clara, if you’re this sensitive, married life with Mark will be difficult. In this family, we believe in speaking the truth.”
“That’s not truth,” I snapped. “That’s cruelty. And there’s a difference between being honest and being rude.”
“Oh, really?” She set her phone down. “So you think my mother is being rude?”
“I think she’s trying her best to show me I don’t belong in your family.”
“And maybe you don’t,” Jessica retorted. “Think about it. Mark is a successful IT executive. He has his own business, a condo downtown, a luxury car. And you’re a nurse at a community hospital, living in a studio apartment on the outskirts, taking the bus. You don’t see the difference?”
“Jessica, shut up,” Mark finally snapped. “She’s my fiancée. Show some respect.”
“I am showing respect,” she shrugged. “I’m just stating facts.”
Eleanor returned with a tray of tiramisu. “Mark, darling, don’t yell at your sister. Jessica is right. She’s just concerned about you.”
“Concerned?” I couldn’t hold back any longer. “Eleanor, if this is concern, I don’t want it. This whole ‘truth’ you speak is just a way to put someone down to make yourselves feel superior.”
A heavy silence fell. Eleanor slowly set the tray on the table. “So, you believe we are putting you down?”
“Yes,” I met her gaze. “I do. From the moment I arrived, you’ve treated me like a second-class citizen.”
“I wasn’t mistaken, then,” she smiled faintly. “You sit here, on the verge of tears, offended by every word. You can’t handle yourself. This is a test, Clara. A test to see if you could fit into our family. And you have failed spectacularly.”
A test? The whole evening was a calculated performance? A setup to make me break?
“So you wanted me to leave?” I asked slowly.
“I wanted you to show your true colors. And you did.” She stood and walked towards me. “You can’t control your emotions. How will you behave at business dinners, with Mark’s partners? Will you scream at them if they say something you don’t like?”
“That wasn’t criticism, it was an insult!”
“I was pointing out facts,” she said coldly. “Which you took as an insult because you have nothing to say in your defense. My son deserves better.”
“Mom, stop it!” Mark finally stood between us.
“Mark, step aside,” Eleanor commanded. “I am not finished.”
And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did. Eleanor leaned over to Jessica and whispered something, quietly, so only they could hear. But I was close enough. And she was speaking Italian.
“Finalmente se ne va, questa pezzente. Dovrebbe essere grata che Mark l’abbia anche solo guardata.”
Finally, this beggar is leaving. She should be grateful Mark even looked at her.
Jessica snickered and whispered back, also in Italian. “Lo so, mamma. È così ordinaria. Mark si merita di molto meglio.”
I know, Mom. She’s so ordinary. Mark deserves so much better.
They both laughed quietly, confident in their secret language. Eleanor looked back at me with a triumphant smirk, expecting to see confusion, hurt, incomprehension.
But I just stood there calmly. Then I smiled. And in perfect, fluent Italian, with the Roman accent I’d picked up over three years, I replied.
“Che peccato che tu non abbia idea di quanto male pronunci le parole italiane, Eleanor. E che patetico il tentativo di sembrare colta usando una lingua che conosci a malapena.”
What a pity you have no idea how terribly you pronounce Italian words, Eleanor. And how pathetic it is to try to seem cultured by using a language you barely know.
The laughter died instantly. Eleanor’s face went white as a sheet. Jessica’s mouth fell open, but no sound came out. Mark stared, utterly bewildered.
“What… what did you say?” Eleanor finally stammered in English.
“I said your Italian is dreadful,” I switched back, but kept the serene smile. “And it’s pathetic to see someone pretend to be educated with a language they barely grasp. I lived in Italy for three years, Eleanor. I worked there. I speak it fluently. And I understood every single word you just said about me.”
A ringing silence filled the room. Eleanor looked at me as if she’d seen a ghost.
“You… you speak Italian?” she mumbled.
“I do. Much better than you, in fact. That pezzente, that ‘beggar’ you were just mocking, also happens to read Italian literature in the original and has actually been to the opera in Rome you love to talk about but have probably never visited.”
“You’re lying!” Jessica found her voice. “Mark would have told us.”
“Mark didn’t know,” I said, looking at my fiancé. “Because unlike some people, I don’t feel the need to boast about a three-week tourist trip as if it were a lifetime of European culture.”
“Clara,” Mark finally spoke. “You really speak Italian? And you understood…?”
“Every word,” I nodded. “Beggar. Ordinary. Mark deserves better. Very cultured, Eleanor. Very European. To insult someone in a language you assume they don’t understand.”
Eleanor’s face turned from pale to a deep, blotchy red. “How dare you?” she hissed. “In my own home!”
“You can say what you like in your home,” I agreed, grabbing my purse. “But now I know the truth. I know what you really think of me. And I know that all your ‘culture’ is just a cheap facade for an insecure woman who’s terrified of losing control over her son.”
“Get out!” she screamed. “Get out of my house!”
“Gladly.” I walked to the door. Mark followed me, looking lost and miserable.
“Clara, wait! Where are you going? Let me at least drive you.”
I turned in the doorway. “No, thank you,” I said quietly. “Stay with your mother. I’ll get home on my own.”
“But… tomorrow… City Hall…”
“There will be no City Hall, Mark,” I said, my voice steady. “The wedding is off.”
I walked out and closed the door behind me.
My mother listened to the entire story, her expression shifting from anger to a quiet pride. When I finished, she just hugged me again. “You did the right thing, honey. A life with a monster-in-law and a spineless husband is a life sentence. Better now than in a year with a baby in your arms.”
“But the loan, Mom? The dress, the restaurant deposit?”
“Money is just money, Clara. We’ll earn it back. You can’t earn back years of your life.”
And then I finally cried. Truly cried. For the love I thought I had, for the future that had just evaporated. My mom stayed the night. We sat up late, drinking tea, and she was right. Life goes on, even when it feels like it’s shattered into a million pieces.
The next week was a blur. My dad came over the next morning, held me tight, and said, “Good riddance to that mama’s boy.” We spent the day on the phone, calling guests, canceling the venue. The salon agreed to take the dress back for a partial refund. Mark’s messages filled my phone, a frantic barrage of apologies and pleas. I read them, then deleted them.
A week later, Jessica was waiting for me outside my apartment building. She looked tired, her usual flawless composure gone.
“I came to apologize,” she said quietly. “For that night. For everything. You were right. We were awful.”
I waited, saying nothing.
“After you left,” she continued, “Mark… he changed. For two days, he didn’t leave his room. Then he packed his bags and moved out. He told Mom she had ruined his life. She’s in shock. He told her he lost the only woman he ever loved because he was too weak to stand up to his own mother.”
My heart gave a painful lurch.
“He asked me to give you this.” She handed me a thick envelope. “It’s a letter. He’s afraid to call, but he wants you to read it.”
I took the letter. As Jessica turned to leave, I stopped her. “Jessica… thank you for coming.”
She just nodded and walked to her car.
I read the letter that night. It was three pages long, a raw, honest confession of his weakness, his regret, his shame. He wrote that I had opened his eyes, that he had been a part of his mother’s toxic game his whole life without realizing it. He had moved out, started living on his own for the first time at thirty, and was finally learning to be his own man. He didn’t ask me to come back, only to know that I had changed him, and for that, he was grateful. I was a coward, he wrote. I didn’t protect you, and that is my fault. Forgive me.
I called my mom and read her the letter.
“So,” she said when I finished. “The question is, do you believe him? Do you believe he’s really changed?”
And that was the question. I didn’t know.
I wrote back to him. Thank you for the letter, I wrote. I’m glad you understand. But I need time. If you really want a chance, prove it. Not with words, but with actions.
And so, we began again. Slowly. Cautiously. He never pushed. He sent texts once a week, just checking in. He learned to cook, to do his own laundry, to live independently. He started setting boundaries with his mother.
Three months later, I agreed to meet him for coffee. He was different. Quieter, more mature. The old, easygoing charm was still there, but it was grounded in a new sense of self. We started dating again, like strangers, rebuilding from the ground up.
A year after that disastrous dinner, we got married. It was a small ceremony at a lakeside retreat with just twenty guests. Our parents, our closest friends. Eleanor was there. She was subdued, polite, and when she hugged me, she whispered, “Forgive me, my dear. For everything.” And I knew she meant it. She had lost her son for a time, and in that loss, she had found a humility she’d never known.
Sometimes, I think about that night, about the sting of those Italian words. It was a moment of profound cruelty, but it was also a moment of liberation. It was the test I had to fail in order to win. It taught me that true love isn’t about tolerating disrespect. It’s about partnership, about having someone who will stand with you, not behind his mother. My dignity is not for sale. It’s the most valuable thing I own. And that is a lesson I will teach my daughter one day.
