It wasn’t the money that was the worst of the problem—it was what you had to do to get it. It was how tired the extra work made you at the end of the week. It was how many times you couldn’t afford to rest, how many Saturdays were spent working, how many Sundays. It was not walking in the park with your child. It was not laughing with them in the evening. It was what all of that took from you. The years it took off the end of your life. And the years it took along the way. Her mother stopped writing her memoirs. She stopped speaking of the past. Nostalgia took energy. Memory came at a cost.
