“Jess…We’ve hit rock-bottom.”

Well then. That wasn’t exactly what I had been expecting when my mother had said she had something important to tell me and sat me down on the edge of my bed in our house in Maryland. And by house, I mean my grandparents’ basement, which had been converted into an apartment of sorts for my family when my mother took a leap of faith/self-respect and finally left my father’s sorry ass in Texas. No, I’m not bitter.

“Mom? What do you mean?,” I asked.

“We have nothing. There’s nothing left in my bank account, ” she replied.

I was tempted to reply, “Well, that’s nothing new,” but I somehow managed to restrain my 12-year-old self. My mother had developed a nasty habit of living child support check to child support check and had never been really good at keeping up with her finances. In fact, I was the one who balanced her checkbook on a weekly basis after she had taught me how to do so, and judging by the numerous entries for Midway Discount Beverages, my mother could have justifiably been considered our local liquor store’s most valued customer. No, I’m not bitter about that either.

If nothing else, my childhood inadvertently taught me the art of worrying.

“Mom, we don’t have food for our lunches tomorrow.”

“Mom, we don’t have gas in the car.”

“Mom, we are going to be late.”

“Mom, people are looking.”

“Mom, we don’t have money.”

Without fail, my mother would always reply, “Stop being a worry wart.“

Looking back on the ways things were and comparing it with how things are now, I am a bit disappointed to report that not much has changed. I still worry about what other people think of me. I still worry about the future, in all of its respects. I still worry about the problems of people whom I care for deeply, as well as others who are, quite frankly, undeserving of my concern. I still worry about the past, and whether or not I did the right thing.

I guess what I am trying to say is that I miss my mother, but I also miss the carefree, innocence-ridden childhood I never had.