That was eight years ago. The money was never mentioned again.
Then came hospital expenses when their first child was born prematurely, requiring weeks in the neonatal intensive care unit. They needed help with the medical bills that insurance wouldn’t cover. Then a crib and baby clothes for their second child. Car repairs when Manny’s transmission failed. Emergency rent money when he lost a job due to company downsizing.
There was always a crisis, always a promise to pay me back as soon as circumstances improved, always an explanation for why this particular emergency was different from all the others. I never asked for the money back directly, telling myself that a mother doesn’t charge her son interest on love.
But my generosity had gradually become their expectation, and my assistance had transformed from emergency help into regular subsidy.
Working in a restaurant teaches you the real value of money. Every dollar I’d given them represented thirty minutes standing in front of a blazing grill, dodging flying grease and managing orders during the lunch rush. So I learned to save everything I could manage, hiding money in places where no one would think to look.
The Dream of Home
For thirty years, my dream had been simple: to own my own home, a place where no landlord could raise the rent or dictate what I could hang on the walls. A place where I could paint the rooms whatever colors made me happy, where I could plant a garden and know that the vegetables I grew would still be mine to harvest.
That dream became urgent when the new owner of my apartment building decided to renovate, giving all tenants three months to either accept a two-hundred-dollar monthly rent increase or find somewhere else to live. At my age and income level, the rent increase would have consumed nearly half my monthly paycheck, leaving me barely enough for food and utilities.
