Those first-class tickets had taken me two years to save for.

The whole time, a coffee can sat on top of our refrigerator with Mama’s Beach Fund written across it in Nia’s uneven handwriting.

Some Fridays I put twenty dollars in.

Other Fridays I could only spare two.

Nia used to drop pennies from her pink purse into it, as though she were personally responsible for making the trip happen.

A child should never have to save pennies just to say goodbye to her mother.