My Mother Ripped the Doll I Bought With Four Months of Saved Coins Out of My Daughter’s Hands,

PART 1

“If you can barely afford to eat, why are you buying expensive dreams for a girl who shouldn’t even be here?” my mother said in the middle of the store aisle.

Gabriela felt her blood run cold as the harsh words echoed through the brightly lit supermarket in Columbus. She was twenty-nine years old, had two faded blue work uniforms stuffed inside an old backpack, and her five-year-old daughter, Willow, was clinging tightly to her hand as if the towering shelves of the giant grocery store might swallow her whole. They lived in a rundown, working-class neighborhood on the outskirts of the city, occupying a cramped apartment where the water heater rarely worked and the wooden kitchen table wobbled constantly, yet Gabriela always made sure there was a hot meal waiting for Willow every single night.

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