I’m driving down to CT today to have dinner with my mom. It’s her 77th birthday.
My mom was barely 18 when she emigrated to the United States from Cuba. She and her sister started working at the Sweet’N Low factory in Brooklyn, NY. Soon after, she met my dad (who also emigrated from Cuba and was 13 years older) and they married.
My mom was 23 years old when I was born, younger than my oldest daughter is today.
She was 60 years old when my father died of lung cancer, and for the first time in her adult life, she was left to her own devices. To be honest, my sister and I were concerned. She didn’t drive, she never dealt with paying the bills, she had no idea what to do when …