I paused. “They can tell you what something is,” I said. “But they can’t tell you what something is worth.”
Lily nodded slowly. “Grandma Margaret used to think they could.”
“Yeah,” I said softly. “And now she’s learning better.”
Lily smiled. “Good,” she said. “Because I want to be worth a lot.”
I kissed her hair. “You already are,” I said. “You always were.”
Part 12
When Lily started middle school, the world got sharper.
It wasn’t dramatic at first. Just small comments from kids who had learned, early, how to measure each other.
A girl in Lily’s class pointed at Lily’s backpack—plain canvas, slightly faded—and said, “Is that from a thrift store?”
Lily shrugged. “Maybe.”
The girl wrinkled her nose. “My mom says thrift store stuff is gross.”
Lily came home quieter than usual that day. She dropped her backpack by the door and went straight to her room.
Later, while I made dinner, she wandered into the kitchen and leaned against the counter.
“Mom,” she said, casual in the way kids try to be casual when something is eating them alive, “what does cheap mean?”
I set down the knife. “In what way?”
Lily shrugged. “Kids say things are cheap. Like it means you’re… less.”