At a prestigious design competition, I was humiliated for my age. Less than a day later, the same woman who mocked me walked into my home—as my son’s fiancée.
I had always put family before my dreams, but at sixty, I finally pursued my passion. My project, inspired by my son Daniel’s childhood drawings, made it to the finals. I was thrilled, but Daniel questioned my confidence.
“Because you’ve always been afraid of change.”
Despite my fears, I presented my design. The audience admired it, but the competition director dismissed me with a smile.
“Design is an industry of fresh perspectives… youthful energy.”
The winner was announced. It wasn’t me. I wasn’t judged by my work, but by my age.
That night, Daniel introduced his fiancée—Rosalind, the woman who had ridiculed me. She feigned politeness, then whispered, “You’ll get the job, as long as you keep quiet.”
Days later, my stolen project was paraded as Rosalind’s breakthrough. At her engagement party, Daniel recognized the designs.
“Mom, doesn’t that look like your project?”
Rosalind attempted excuses, but Daniel saw the truth.
“We’re done. I can’t marry someone who could do this.”
That night, Daniel and I sat on a park bench, sharing cake under the stars. I lost a job, but I reclaimed my dignity—and, more importantly, I still had my son.
