Member-only story
GOOD GRIEF
My Mom’s Recipe Cards are Calling Me
But my fingers are in my ears and la, la, la, la, la
I’m an eleven-year-old who sews her own clothes. When people ask me why, “I have more time than money.”
My mother is still young. She’s stuck on a farm in a loveless marriage; the nearest shops are an hour’s walk away and she does not drive. I make her clothes, too, eking fabric and notions out of her grocery allowance. The rest of her money fills the pantry from which she cooks incredible food. It tastes much better when Dad’s out of town and they’re not fighting.
Fortunately, he’s gone a lot these days.
Mom and I have all the time in the world and none of the money.
I get my first credit card at eighteen; my gap year salary makes me a good risk. Suddenly I’m rich. I hit the shops in Yorkville and buy a wardrobe, for the first time in my life ignoring the price tags. Why?
“I have time and money to kill.”
Mom, now divorced, has lost 40 pounds of hate weight. She uses her lump sum “take the money and I never want to see or hear from you again” divorce settlement to buy clothes in bright colors. She’s showing off her new body and hopes to snare another husband.
