I called my mother once. I hated asking for help, hated it with the particular intensity of someone who has been taught that needing help is a character failing, but I was genuinely struggling and I thought, family, surely that means something when it’s this bad.
“Mom,” I said, “I’m really struggling. My hours at the diner got cut and I’m not sure I can make rent.”
The sigh was very long.
“Daisy, you’re twenty years old. You have to learn to budget. We can’t bail you out every time you mismanage your money. This is what building character looks like. Your father and I worked for everything we had.”
“I’m working. I have two jobs. I’m just—”
