My hands were shaking as I smoothed the lapel of the charcoal grey suit. It smelled faintly of cedar and old paper, a stark reminder that I was wearing a stranger’s discarded clothes to the most important meeting of my life. I had exactly twelve dollars in my bank account, and this ten-dollar Goodwill find was my only shot at looking like I belonged in a corporate boardroom.

I sat in the waiting room, rehearsing my answers, terrified they would see right through me. That’s when I felt it—a stiff, crinkled lump in the inner breast pocket. Panic set in. Had I left a price tag on? Was the lining ripped?

I checked to make sure the receptionist wasn’t looking and slid my hand into the pocket. My fingers brushed against thick, textured cardstock. I pulled it out. It wasn’t a receipt or a piece of trash. It was a photograph of a young woman, smiling radiantly in front of a 1970s convertible, and on the back, a handwritten note in fading blue ink:

“To Arthur. Wear this when you go to ask for the raise you deserve. You are brilliant, you are kind, and you are worth more than they know. I believe in you. – M”

My breath hitched. Arthur. Whoever he was, he had worn this suit to fight for his worth, bolstered by the love of the woman in the photo. Suddenly, the suit didn’t feel like a costume anymore. It felt like armor. I wasn’t just a broke candidate in a second-hand jacket; I was carrying a legacy of confidence.

“Mr. Hayes?” the receptionist called out. “They’re ready for you.”

I looked at the photo one last time, tucked it gently back against my heart, and stood up. The shaking in my hands had stopped. I walked into that interview not with the desperation of someone who needed a job, but with the quiet dignity of Arthur.

I got the job. But more importantly, I learned that worth isn’t about the price tag on your clothes—it’s about the belief you carry in your pocket. I still have the photo. Someday, I hope to find Arthur’s family and tell them that his suit had one last victory left in it.