“Because it’s a promotion.”
Her mother shook her head.
“Sounds like they found a more expensive way to bother you.”
That was her mother.
The person who had encouraged her through school, illness, work, and fear while refusing to romanticize any of it.
During the waitress years, her mother had felt guilty.
She believed her illness cost her daughter the first legal career.
Her daughter spent years trying to convince her otherwise.
“You didn’t make me leave school.”
“I got sick.”
“Yes.”
“You left.”
“Yes.”
“So.”
“So life happened.”
Her mother disliked that answer.
Too forgiving.
Then one evening, long after her daughter had become a lawyer, the mother finally said:
“I think I needed you to blame me because then the lost years had a reason.”
The lawyer stared.
Her mother continued:
“If nobody caused it, then we just lost time.”
That hurt differently.
The lawyer sat beside her.
“We didn’t lose all of it.”
Her mother gave her a look.
“Don’t make it inspirational.”
She laughed.
“Fine.”
“Some of it sucked.”
“Better.”
They laughed together.
The mother died at eighty-four.
Not suddenly.
Cancer.
The second time illness entered the family, the lawyer was older and wealthier.
She could pay for care.
Take leave.
Hire help.
None of that made grief easier.
It only removed certain logistical cruelties.
During the final weeks, her mother sometimes confused time.
One afternoon she looked at her daughter and asked:
“You working tonight?”
The lawyer realized her mother thought she was twenty-nine again.
“At the restaurant?”
Her mother nodded.
The lawyer swallowed.
“Yes.”
Her mother said:
“Wear the comfortable shoes.”
The lawyer laughed through tears.
“I will.”
Then her mother whispered:
“And don’t translate anything.”
Both women laughed so hard a nurse came in to check on them.
That was one of the last completely lucid jokes her mother made.
After the funeral, the lawyer found the old pair of black service shoes in a storage box.
She had no idea why she had kept them.
The soles were worn nearly smooth.