For the second time that day, a tear rolled down my cheek. Frustrated, I wiped it away. I hadn’t been a child for a very long time, since my mother died. So why was I acting like one now?
The expectation of maturity placed on the youth of the Great Depression was astounding, especially in the case of someone like Melissa, who had been tasked as a mother to her younger sister before she was even able to read or write. Although Melissa was of age and playing the role of which she was expected, my heart breaks for all the ways she was really only a child. How lonely and overwhelming and scary life must have felt for her in this moment, along with the conviction that she wasn't allowed to feel--much less express--these emotions.
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