When I asked my daughter what day her wedding would be, she answered without looking up from her phone: “It was a week ago, Mom. We only invited important people.” Seven days later, when she called to ask if I had paid her rent yet, I understood that sometimes God doesn’t punish… He just settles the accounts.
I had been painting Valerie’s room since six in the morning.
Pale yellow, the color she had chosen at seventeen and never gotten tired of. I was on a stepladder with a roller brush, my back aching, my knees complaining, a playlist of her favorite childhood songs on my phone, when she walked in carrying a coffee for herself.
She glanced around.
Looked at my work. Then picked up her phone.
“Mom,” she said, not looking up, “did you pay the electric bill yet?”
“Good morning, sweetheart.”
“The bill. Did you pay it?”
I climbed down carefully.
“I’ll pay it tomorrow.”
“It’s already three days late.”
I told her I had been busy with the painting. She told me I should prioritize. Then she took her coffee and left the room.
That was how most of our mornings worked.
I had been helping Valerie and her new boyfriend Brandon since they moved in together eight months earlier.
The apartment was under my name — I had cosigned because Brandon had no credit history and Valerie was between jobs. I also paid the electric bill. I also covered the department store card when something came up.
I also bought groceries when the month ran long.
Valerie was twenty-six. She had a degree in communications. She had a boyfriend who wore expensive shoes and spoke about money in a language that sounded impressive until you asked a specific question.
I had been cleaning houses for thirty years. My hands showed every one of them.
But I paid. Because she was my daughter.
Because she needed help. Because that was what mothers did.
Or so I had been telling myself.
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