Eleven thousand dollars.
I didn’t make a speech about it.
I didn’t ask for recognition.
Most of the time, nobody even directly requested the money.
Mom would call and mention that something had broken.
She would sigh and explain how difficult things were becoming.
Then I would say the same thing I always said.
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll handle it.”
And she would respond warmly.
“You’re always so good at taking care of things, Olivia.”
I would hang up feeling useful.
Important.
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Almost loved.
Somewhere deep inside, I was still that nine-year-old girl waiting for her mother to say she was proud.
Five months before the anniversary celebration, Mom called me on a Tuesday evening.
“You know what special occasion is coming up, don’t you?”
I was standing in my kitchen drying a plate.
“Your fortieth anniversary.”
“Forty years,” she said dreamily. “Can you imagine? Your father and
