The last time I saw my mother, I called her a disgrace. Two years later, I was standing on her porch, shivering in a thin jacket, praying she wouldn’t slam the door in my face.
I used to be a “somebody.” I was a Vice President of Sales in downtown Chicago, wearing Italian suits and driving a car that cost more than my mother’s entire house. I thought I had made it. The American Dream was real, and I was living it.
From the moment my first big commission check cleared, I set up a direct deposit for my mother: $800 a month. It was my way of saying, “Thank you,” but also my way of saying, “Please, stop looking poor.”
My mother lived in a small, rust-belt town in Ohio. The factories had closed years ago, and the neighborhood was tired. I wanted her to be the queen of the block. I wanted her to renovate the kitchen, buy nice clothes from the mall, maybe get her hair done professionally instead of dyeing it over the bathroom sink.
