My name is Daphne. I’m twenty-nine, and until last month, I thought being useful was close enough to being loved.
I’d always been the one they called when things fell apart. I kept a little blue notebook in my purse with every bill, due date, and paycheck written in tight columns. I knew which store had cheaper eggs and how to stretch soup with rice or noodles.
Still, when my mother, Stella, called crying, I answered.
“Daph, honey,” my mother whispered into the phone one Monday morning. “I wouldn’t ask if I had another choice.”
I was eating toast over the sink before work. “What happened?”
“It’s the house, baby. We might lose it.”
I opened my banking app. “How much?”
She cried harder.
“Mom,” I said. “Tears aren’t numbers.”
“It’s a lot, Daph. $3,000.”
I’d have to dig into my emergency fund, the one I’d built five dollars at a time after paying for car repairs. But I pictured my parents packing boxes. I pictured Mom standing in the driveway with nowhere to go.
So I sent it.
She called me her angel.
I stared at my toast and said, “I’d settle for financially stable over that, Mom.”
Two weeks later, my dad, Edison, called during lunch.
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