I always thought my mother’s quiet routines were invisible to the world.
She’s 73 and still wakes up every morning at six, just like she did when she worked at the library. She puts on face cream, irons a blouse even if she’s staying home, and brews her coffee in the same chipped white pot she’s refused to replace for years. After that, she sits at the kitchen table with her small black notebook and carefully writes down every dollar she spent the day before. Four dollars on milk. Thirty-eight cents for gum. Prescriptions. Groceries. Everything accounted for.
And I’ve learned that’s exactly why some people think they can take advantage of her.
Across the street lives Claire. She’s 36, works at a marketing agency, and is always heading to “client lunches” and “strategy meetings” that somehow land right at happy hour. She has a three-year-old daughter, Lily, who seems to exist in three modes only: screaming, sleeping, or bouncing off the walls.