My mother would have been 89 years old today. Would have been. I didn’t realize it until later, but the day my car was totaled was the twentieth anniversary of her death.
And all I can think about is how glad I am that she isn’t around to see that I lost the house, that I’m living in a shelter, that my cats are living at the vet’s and that I don’t know how long it will take me to even begin paying him back. Let alone how long it will take me to pay back all the people who’ve kicked in to help keep me afloat the last couple of years, helped me pay for my bankruptcy — there’s a supreme irony in the fact that if you have reached the point of needing to file, you’re too poor to afford to do it — and all the rest of it.
Let’s face it. There’s a big part of me that’s ashamed.
There’s another part, of course, that points out my mom loved me and would never be ashamed of me as long as I was doing my best. And I know it. Another part that reminds me in no uncertain terms that if I’d had any idea this was waiting for me, I’d have made a whole boatload of different choices. And I know that, too. But like that line Julia Roberts’ character says to Richard Gere’s in Pretty Woman, the bad stuff is easier to believe.