When I picked up my son’s piggy bank, the weight startled me.
It wasn’t the kind of surprise that sparks anger or suspicion. It was quieter than that—an unease that settled slowly in my chest. Since my husband passed away, life had become a careful balancing act. Long workdays, constant budgeting, and raising a thirteen-year-old alone left little room for surprises. And yet, when I opened the piggy bank, there were not just coins inside, but folded bills. Hundreds of them. Enough to make my hands tremble.
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