The first year, she lulled him to sleep by saying he was so special he could change the world.
The fifth year, she encouraged him to paint, to play, to write stories.
The tenth year, she assured him he could be whatever he wanted to be when he grew up.
The fifteenth year, she started to dread he would never be more serious about his future.
The twentieth year, she was openly relieved that he dropped out of Art School to study Accounting.
The last year, she cried, seeing his life for what it was; the mirror of her own.