When I was a kid, my mom, Anissa, called spinach “dark green lettuce” to get me to eat it. I loved it, even at 17, until a friend pointed out it was spinach. Mom admitted she’d renamed it to make it appealing when we were broke. After my dad left, she worked three jobs, always making dinner feel special despite our struggles.
At 22, I was freelancing as a graphic designer when Mom broke her wrist but kept working. Furious at life’s unfairness, I surprised her with a spa day and groceries using my first big paycheck. That sparked a drive to thrive, not just survive. I hustled, landing a five-figure corporate gig. With the money, I took Mom to the city market where she’d bought our “lettuce.” We laughed over old memories.
Years later, a letter from my dying father arrived. Mom visited him—not for closure, but to let go. It freed her. My business grew, and I gifted her a café, named Dark Green Lettuce. It thrived, serving spinach pastries and joy. Mom found happiness running it, no longer bound by grueling hours. “Dark green lettuce” wasn’t just spinach—it was her love and resilience, renaming hardship into something beautiful. Together, we built a future from it.
