In her young mind, the math was simple: if the camp cost this much, she had to be worth it. She had to be the most helpful, the least problematic, and the most invisible camper in the history of the program. She was terrified that if she made a mistake, or if she simply acted like a kid, she would prove that my sacrifice had been a waste. The maturity I had been so proud of was actually a shield against her own guilt.
When I finally walked over to Mia, she looked at me with those bright, cautious eyes, waiting to see if I was pleased with her behavior. I didn’t say a word about the director. I simply pulled her into a hug, feeling the thinness of her shoulders and the tension she held even in her sleep. We walked toward the car in silence, the sound of other children laughing in the distance feeling like a sharp contrast to the quiet, heavy burden my daughter had been carrying.
