For three years, my daughter Mia had talked about one place more than anywhere else on earth.
A summer camp.
She had studied its website, memorized photographs of the cabins, watched videos of children riding horses through the woods, and even learned the names of the lake activities.
Every summer, she asked if she could go.
Every summer, I told her, “Maybe next year.”
Not because I didn’t want her to go.
Because I wasn’t sure we could afford it.
Then, when Mia turned thirteen, I decided that waiting for the perfect financial moment meant she might never get the experience she dreamed about.
So I worked extra weekends for months.
Four additional Saturdays.
I skipped things I wanted.
I postponed buying myself new clothes.
Her grandmother helped with dinners when my work schedule became ridiculous.
And eventually, I paid the camp fee.
It was more than our monthly mortgage.
