He wore tailored suits, drove a beautiful truck, and constantly shared photographs of his achievements online.
I worked overnight shifts at a commercial bread factory.
Before that, I’d owned a small bakery.
But when my business closed, my mother began introducing me to people with the same uncomfortable explanation.
“Greta had a little business that didn’t work out.”
Sometimes she’d add a sympathetic smile.
As though those few words explained everything about me.
The day we buried Grandpa Walter, she introduced Derek to the pastor with obvious pride.
“This is my Derek. He’s doing wonderfully in real estate.”
Then she turned toward me.
“And this is Greta. She’s had a difficult few years.”
I was standing there holding a stack of paper cups because no one had bothered to save me a seat.
I smiled politely.
I’d learned years earlier that arguing with my mother rarely accomplished anything.
