Page 32 - Demo

my mother, as myself? Like the so many who are not born with silver spoons in their mouths?
A distinct nervous ticking of the impatient traffic light and the elbowing of pedestrians extract me from my dark, brooding thoughts.
Just as I take my first step, “Ah!” exclaims a radiant child, dressed in a bright pink tutu and silk flats. For a moment, I stare at this beautiful and blithe ballerina who accidentally bumped into me. I admire her hair, pulled back into a neat bun, adorned with a shimmering flower and her sweet, sweet smile.
“Come on, Priscilla. We’re late for Marianne’s tea party at the Peninsula!”
A perfectly manicured hand takes the tiny hand of the child. I feel a tightness in my chest, a growing void of indescribable sorrow and a twinge of jealousy.
I wince as I recall the difficult conversation I had with Hope. Holding her tiny hands in mine, I explained that it wasn’t just the lessons that were unaffordable, but the extra cost of commute to practice and the accessories that came along with it. A fleeting look of disappointment flashed across her face, only to be swiftly replaced by a forced grin.
“Never mind, mommy!”
Suppressing hot pin pricks provoking a steady stream of tears, I continue walking.
The sudden, jarring pounding of a drill commands my attention towards an imposing billboard: glamorous models in sleek suits and satin dresses and holding glasses of champagne gaze down from their luxury flat upon the serene ocean, eyes glistening with optimism.
I grit my teeth. The unattainable dream taunts those, who like me, struggle to pay the rent for a single room of a subdivided flat. A flat so cramped and claustrophobic that a bunk bed and few possessions leave insufficient space for children to do their homework.
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