I’d shelved my design dreams for years, raising my son and keeping life steady. At 60, I jumped back in, entering a contest with a project born from my son Ben’s childhood flower sketches. When I made the finals, I was thrilled—and terrified.
Ben cheered me on at dinner. “Mom, that’s amazing! You ready?” I confessed my nerves, but he insisted I’d rock it, even pushing me to shop for a bold look. Then he dropped he was buying a ring—my boy was proposing!
We bonded picking out his ring and my outfit, both buzzing for our big moments. I felt alive, ready to unveil a design blending Ben’s drawings with modern style, a piece of our history.
At the contest, a slick office hummed with young creatives. A snarky glance from a pink-haired woman rattled me, but I stood tall. My presentation shone—floral designs glowing onscreen—and people leaned in, hooked.
The director, polished and poised, took the stage next. “Great work, everyone,” she said, then eyed me. “Grace, your project’s solid, but design needs a youthful spark.” Laughter hit like a slap; my age, not my skill, lost me the prize.
Shaken, I faced dinner with Ben and his fiancée the next night. When she walked in—Nora, the director—my heart sank. “Grace, so happy to meet you!” she beamed, playing nice for Ben.
I kept quiet, smiling. Ben asked about the contest, and I said, “Still pending,” watching Nora squirm. She hissed later, “Stay silent, and I’ll get you work.” I demanded respect in return.
She nodded, charming through dinner, but my sketches vanished that night—she’d taken them. At their engagement party, Nora gloated about “her” campaign—my designs. Ben frowned, “Mom, isn’t that yours?”
“Yes,” I said. “She shamed me, then stole it.” Nora babbled excuses, but Ben cut her off. “You hurt my mom and lied to me—it’s done.” She fled, the room abuzz.
Ben snagged cake, saying, “Park time, Mom.” We sat under the stars, sharing bites. I lost the gig but gained my strength—and Ben’s trust kept me whole.
