There was no custody fight. No birthday cards. No phone calls. Nothing.
My mother never told that story with any drama. She would simply say, “Some people leave when life stops flattering them.”
Then she’d go to work.
She worked double shifts at a diner while enduring skin treatments she could barely afford. She never asked anyone for pity. She never allowed me to feel like I was something she had to survive.
When I was sixteen, I got a job stocking shirts at a department store.
She found out and got mad.
“You should be studying.”
“I am studying.”
“You are not taking a job because of me.”
“I’m taking a job because groceries cost money.”
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