“Mom,” she whispered, her voice reverent. “The blue one. It looks like… like it could fly.”

“It looks like freedom,” I corrected softly, though the word lodged in my throat like a splinter.

Freedom was a concept I had chased for thirty years. I had grown up in a house where affection was a transaction and approval was a moving target I was never meant to hit. But that week, the universe had shifted. After five years of scraping by as a paralegal, working sixty-hour weeks while finishing my degree at night, the firm had handed me a bonus check. It was significant. It was enough to fix the radiator, pay off a credit card, and still have this moment left over.