The night of the concert, I was nervous but proud. My mom had promised to come, but her late shift ran long, and she called to say she couldn’t make it. I told her it was okay, but inside, I was crushed. I wanted her in the front row, clapping, smiling. Now, I felt alone.
The gym buzzed with excitement—parents packed the bleachers, siblings squirmed, and the scent of hot chocolate drifted from the concession stand. When my moment came, I stepped onto the stage and froze. My hands trembled. My mouth went dry. The words I’d practiced vanished.
“You’ve got this!”
I looked toward the crowd. There was Jim—standing, clapping, grinning like I was the star of the show. His face radiated belief in me, the kind I couldn’t find for myself.
Something shifted. The knot in my chest loosened. I took a breath, lifted my chin, and sang. My voice wasn’t perfect, but it was steady. By the end, I even smiled. Applause erupted, and for the first time that night, I felt proud.
After the concert, Jim was waiting in the hallway. In his hands was a paper cup of hot chocolate, steam curling into the cold December air. He didn’t say anything dramatic. Just handed it to me and said:
“I’m proud of you.”
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