TODAY’S SECRET IS TOMORROW’S TRUTH

I’m running late like most mornings and I’m juggling my keys, bag and coffee cup trying to get out of the house. I get to work and unlock the office doors and let the familiar echo settle into the hallway. My bag lands in its usual spot by my desk, and I make my way into the mayor’s office. It is our daily ritual to talk first thing in the morning. I wouldn’t call it a meeting. It’s a small exchange before the town wakes up, before the phones start ringing, before the weight of the day sets in. We trade notes about what happened overnight and what is waiting for us ahead.

Today, we’re focused on a meeting to hash out the last-minute decisions for the beach and park dedication. This event carries weight because of who and what it is for. A small group of volunteers have spent more than a decade revitalizing the beach and park that make our small tourist town so popular. They aren’t just neighbors lending a hand; they are some of the wealthiest people in town, the kind whose own donations run into the thousands. They donated more than money they donated their time and used their relationships with their wealthy friends and acquaintances to raise hundreds of thousands of dollars. This dedication is about honoring the kind of influence and generosity that quietly shaped the project from the beginning.

Later that afternoon the meeting begins, and we move quickly through the final details. The tent is ordered, the band is reserved, and the chairs will be delivered on Saturday. As the meeting ends, we all head back upstairs. My office is near the door, and as meeting attendees filter out everyone says goodbye. Well, everyone except one person, Edna, a woman in her early seventies who carries a prominent family name. In fact, as part of the park revitalization a maritime museum that was once a mansion was taken down, and that mansion had been her family home.

Edna takes a seat in a chair in front of my desk and leans in and begins whispering. She tells me she doesn’t like the current mayoral candidate. I said I don’t know him well, but it seems he is running against himself. The more he speaks the less people like him. Edna then says she wants me to run as a write-in for the position and that I have exactly what is needed to be a great mayor. I try to answer politely, explaining that the city charter doesn’t allow it. I’d need a petition, and the deadline for filing a petition has already passed. Dismissing my reasoning, and sounding determined Edna says, “We’ll just get you the signatures needed on the petition and tell the Board of Elections to take it.” I tell her I wish it were that easy, but that the better path is to help the unopposed candidate become the best mayor he can be. As she stands to leave, I say, “Let’s just keep this our secret.”

I try to stay calm the rest of the afternoon, but Edna’s words echo in my head as I drive home. How could someone like her think I have what it takes to be mayor? What makes her better than me? Is it her money, her family’s name, the neighborhood she lives in? Meanwhile, I’m driving a ten-year-old car with loan payments I can’t afford, headed home to a house I don’t even own.

I don’t have anyone I can tell who would understand how big this felt. Needing to talk it out with someone and wishing leukemia hadn’t taken mom away from me, I decide to call my dad. He’s not the person you call to have an emotional conversation, but he is always happy to hear what’s going on in the city. “This is a secret, don’t tell anyone,” I begin. But after I get the story out, he is more interested in why Edna doesn’t like the current candidate than in my so-called secret. I suppose I’ll save it for another day.

Normally, I’d spend Saturday and Sunday at my second job delivering groceries, but this weekend is consumed by preparation for the dedication. It’s rough giving up the part time hours for overtime that I’m not paid for. How do I explain what it means to give up a day’s pay, to people who have never known what it feels like to go without? People who spend their days deciding which causes deserve their extra wealth. You don’t. You just keep that secret for another day.

Sunday morning, I start my day at the park, setting up chairs under the tent and making sure everyone will be able to see the guest speakers with the shores of Lake Erie in the background. I see my sister-in-law and niece riding their bikes through the park. They stop by where I’m working with the park’s supervisor to say hello. My sister-in-law mentions she heard from my dad about someone wanting me to run for mayor. “Shhh,” I gesture with my finger at my lips. “That’s a secret for another day.” My sister-in-law smiles and says, “my lips are sealed.”

Back home, I dig through my thrift store clothes and jewelry until I piece together an outfit. I study my reflection in the mirror, and I start asking questions as if the mirror will answer me. Does this look good? Do I have too many bracelets? Does the necklace make my outfit look cheap? Do I look like someone who comes from money? Hopefully, the truth hides behind the pearls.

Arriving at the park feels like stepping onto a stage. I start wiping down chairs and making sure they are clean and set up properly. As I’m working, I hear someone say, “you don’t have to do that,” as if the task is beneath me. If only they knew, if I weren’t here, I’d be making grocery deliveries to keep my electricity on.

Guests along with volunteers, donors, and speakers begin to arrive. A brass band plays, children laugh on the beach, and the waves provide the perfect backdrop for the ceremony. I move through the crowd, handing out programs. Across the lawn, I spot Edna, the woman who had whispered at my desk days earlier. She is surrounded by a small group of women, chatting. We make eye contact, and as I approach, Edna announces loudly that I should run for mayor. She begins telling the group that I’d be a far better candidate than the person running. My cheeks flush as I quickly interrupt: “that’s a secret for another day”.

The dedication is flawless. Every speech is perfect, the turnout strong, and everyone seems genuinely pleased. All I can think about is how tired I am and how ready I am to go home. I stack the last of the chairs and head for my car. Before leaving the park, I look into the rearview mirror. The reflection staring back at me is different from the smiling photos that will later fill my social media feed. The unfiltered version reveals a single mom with tired eyes, a strained smile, and the quiet weight of secrets saved for another day.