Mine were inconveniences.
By sixteen, I was working evenings at a grocery store.
Part of my paycheck went toward household expenses.
Lauren worked briefly at a clothing boutique.
Her money bought concert tickets, makeup, and new shoes.
When I pointed out the difference, Mom smiled like I had just received a compliment.
“You’ve always been the strong one.”
I grew to hate the word strong.
In our house, strong meant nobody needed to ask whether you were okay.
The only person who seemed to understand was my grandmother, Ruth Carter.
Grandma Ruth lived twenty miles away in an old bungalow with crooked floors and a detached workshop.
She had spent most of her life refinishing furniture.
Every cabinet, chair, and table in her house had a story.
When Mom let me visit, Grandma put tools in my hands.
She taught me how to strip paint.
Repair drawers.
Patch plaster.
