She practiced in our
narrow kitchen while waiting for breakfast.
She stretched beside the living room sofa.
She watched professional performances online and tried to copy the movements, even when she didn’t know their names.
Sometimes I’d find her standing near the refrigerator, carefully practicing a turn.
“Audrey, you’re going to bump into something,” I’d warn.
She’d laugh.
“Mom, that’s why I have to practice. I need better control.”
We couldn’t always afford the lessons she wanted.
My husband, Scott, supervised construction sites, and I worked as a hospital administrator.
We earned enough to support our family, but professional dance training was expensive.
When Audrey was younger, we enrolled her in beginner classes whenever our budget allowed.
Between those lessons, she practiced using instructional videos and ballet books she’d borrowed from the library.
She saved birthday money for shoes.
She asked for dancewear instead of expensive electronics.
And she never seemed to lose interest.
I admired her determination.
So when she received an offer to join the advanced teen program at a respected studio, it felt like a dream finally coming true.
She burst through our front door one afternoon, waving her phone.
“Mom! They accepted me!”
I was standing near the kitchen counter.
“Who accepted you?”
“The studio! The advanced program!”
She pushed the screen toward me.
I read the acceptance email.
Then I read it again.
She’d also received a scholarship covering most of the tuition.
I hugged her.
“Audrey, that’s wonderful!”
She was practically bouncing.
“Can I go? Please say yes.”
I wanted to answer immediately.
But there was one problem.
The studio was almost fifty minutes away by car.
Taking public transportation required two bus transfers.
And the classes ended after eight in the evening.
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Scott and I both worked late enough that transporting her three evenings every
