When I was ten years old, my life shifted in a way I didn’t recognize at the time. My parents had divorced years earlier, and while I had grown used to living with my mom, I still carried a quiet resentment toward anyone who might try to replace my dad. So when my mom remarried, her new husband Jim was, in my eyes, just an outsider. He lived in our house, ate at our table, and tried a little too hard to win me over. I kept my distance.
That winter, my elementary school announced a holiday concert. It wasn’t anything fancy—just the gym decorated with paper snowflakes and twinkling lights—but for me, it was huge. I had been given a small solo, just a few lines in the middle of a Christmas carol. I practiced for weeks, humming the tune under my breath and rehearsing before bed.
On the big night, my mom had promised to come, but her late shift at work kept her away. She called to tell me she couldn’t make it. I said I understood, but inside I felt crushed. I wanted someone in the audience clapping for me, smiling at me, cheering me on.
When my turn came, I walked onto the stage and froze. The lights felt too bright, my hands shook, and the words I had practiced so many times refused to come. Then, out of the crowd, a voice rang clear:
“You’ve got this!”
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