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.
***NEXT PAGE
Scott and I both worked late enough that transporting her three evenings every
week would be difficult.
I looked at the schedule.
Audrey noticed my hesitation.
“Mom?”
“We need to work out transportation.”
Her expression fell.
“You always say that.”
“Because I mean it, sweetheart.”
“Then why do you look worried?”
I didn’t have an answer that would reassure her.
For the next two weeks, Scott and I tried to make arrangements.
We asked coworkers.
We spoke to neighbors.
We checked alternative schedules.
But nobody could reliably handle all three evenings.
Audrey offered to take the bus by herself.
“I can get there early and wait inside,” she said.
“Getting home afterward is the difficult part,” I explained.
She looked disappointed.
And I felt terrible.
Then, during Sunday dinner, someone offered a solution we hadn’t considered.
***
Derek had been Scott’s closest friend since high school.
They’d known each other for nearly thirty years.
Their friendship had survived college, career changes, marriages, and raising
children.
Derek and his wife, Laura, had a daughter named Mia who was the same age as Audrey.
The girls had taken beginner ballet together years earlier.
Derek was familiar with our family, and Audrey had grown up calling him Uncle Derek.
