Managing, 1945

When Anna’s father had to take a job in Philadelphia, Anna’s mother said they would just have to manage. But she didn’t manage. Especially not after Anna began attending a selective high school for girls in Manhattan. Anna now had to leave the apartment at 7:30 in the morning to get to school by roll call at 8:30, and was almost never back before 5:30. She was in the Latin Club, the Drama Club and the Debating Club, all of which met once a week after school. Her class had elected her Class Representative to the Student Council, and she had also become a reporter for the school newspaper. She felt busy and important and excited about being in this interesting new school.

Her mother was not equally excited for her. Anna would often open the front door when she finally got home only to find her mother sunk in an upholstered armchair in the very clean living room still in her housecoat, apron and slippers, no lipstick on and hair not yet combed although it was almost dark out. Without Anna having noticed how or when it had happened, her mother had gradually slipped into a state of sour unhappiness.

What had become of the mother Anna loved so much? This one complained Anna didn’t keep her room neat, her bureau drawers were sloppy, all she did was read, read, read. This one scolded that Anna didn’t stand straight: Didn’t she realize what she looked like when she slumped? This one found everything wrong. Anna didn’t even try not to wear her glasses all the time. (Her eyes were her best feature — why was she hiding them?) Anna had no nice friends. (Peggy downstairs was a “shtunk.”) Anna should have gone to Forest Hills High like the other girls in her eighth-grade class, where she wouldn’t be wandering around downtown until suppertime. And where there were boys.

It was so unfair. She wasn’t fourteen yet. Did getting her period make everything different? Was she suddenly supposed to become another sort of girl? Or was it because of what her father, on one of his alternate weekends at home, had called “the change?”  Apparently “the change” had come early to her mother. Also her father’s absence in Philadelphia was in its second year, which meant that her mother had been having much less to do around the house for a long time. All his laundry was done at the hotel; the bathroom was much less untidy; her mother didn’t have to prepare meat and potatoes every night. She should get a job, thought Anna. Quite a few mothers had jobs. If she had a job, she wouldn’t always be picking on every single thing Anna did.

“Who would hire me?” said her mother.

“You could be a secretary.”

Her mother shook her head bitterly. “I can’t type.”

“You could take a course. You could learn.”

“I can’t spell right in English.”

Anna sighed. “You told me once you were good at mathematics in school. You don’t need spelling for that. You could be a bookkeeper.”

“I was working in bookkeeping in a big department store when Daddy married me,” said her mother. “But he made me stop. He said it wasn’t right for a man’s wife to work.”

“That was a long time ago. Maybe he’s changed.”

“Bookkeeping is what’s changed. I wouldn’t know how to do it any more.”

Anna didn’t know how to answer that one. She wasn’t sure if bookkeeping had changed or not.

“I’m useless now,” her mother said flatly. “And worn out. Just worn out.” She bent over in the chair; Anna could hardly make out what she was saying. She thought she heard, “What’s going to happen to you when I’m dead?”

“What do you mean?” she cried, frightened.

Her mother rocked back and forth, still bent over. “I sacrificed my life for you when you were a baby.” Her voice was shaking. “And now look at you.” She began to cry. “I wish I’d never been born.” After a moment, she added, “I wish you’d never been born!”

Anna turned away, so her mother shouldn’t see her face if she sat up. The parquet pattern of the wood floor blurred, but she managed to get to her own little room and sit down at her maple desk. A few tears escaped the back of her hand and fell on her desk blotter. She looked at the small wet spots with satisfaction, wishing someone could have seen how brave she had been when her mother said that horrible thing to her.

Then she promised herself that when she had children, she was absolutely never going to blurt out something on the spur of the moment that maybe she didn’t really mean without thinking first about how the children would feel.


    • Thank you very much for appreciating this piece, Alesia. A comment like yours is music to an author’s ears, and I’m so glad you were moved when you read it. But please don’t think that writing a story about a mother and father and daughter who all lived so very long ago is bravery. Of course people continue to hurt each other in thoughtless — and even intentional — ways even today. But I write about Anna in the third person because I’m not that girl any more. If you check out the page titled “Why Blog About Getting Old” you’ll realize I’m 83 now, and all this is very ancient history. So these little literary tales (and that’s what they are) are not really confessions or “sharing” — except in the sense that all literature is sharing the author’s view of life. That said, I hope you do keep reading and enjoying them. That will make me happy too. 🙂


  1. It’s so sad how there are still so many parents who say such mean things (whether intentional or not) to their children. Since I’ve yet to become a parent myself, naturally, I don’t know the sacrifice required to raise a child. But when I see people who seem to invest everything/pin all their hopes & dreams on their kid – along with the pressure of ‘you must repay me someday, look at all the sacrifices I’m making for you’ – I can’t help but feel a little angry at the situation. Anna was such a wise young lady, especially the promise she made to herself after her painful experience.

    On a happier note, TGIF! 🙂 😀


    • You’re a very empathetic person, Takami. I think most people do the best they can, but there are times when “the best” breaks down, or doesn’t go far enough. We all hurt each other all the time, often without knowing it. It’s worse, though, when the injury falls on an innocent child who hasn’t yet learned to somewhat harden the heart against what life inflicts. Here, Anna’s mother had become an extremely needy and depressed woman at this time in her life, for reasons you may be able to surmise from prior “tales” in the series. In depression, the effect of your words on others is very far from your mind; you’re consumed only with your own misery. Does being angry about it help? I don’t think so. It’s simply a no-win situation for everyone. Thank goodness human beings are quite resilient. We can survive quite a lot of pain — and come up smiling because it’s Friday. 😀


    • I think Anna’s mother’s problems ran deeper than “menopause.” I hope I’ve suggested that her view of life’s possibilities was somewhat limited, and now that her husband had been away, except for short bi-monthly visits, for almost two years, she was probably very lonely and without purpose. But I do appreciate your sensitive reading.


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