Dear Priscilla Bennett Friends,
Today Harry and I had lunch at our favorite pizza restaurant—pizza margherita with extra cheese—it doesn’t do much for our cholesterol, and for that reason, we only indulge once in a blue moon, making it taste even better.
We sat at a table for two next to another one where a young woman sat alone, texting. When Harry engaged her, she looked up and said, “I’m waiting for my mother. She’s always late. She’s Latin American, maybe that’s why.” Her laugh was short—cut off at the edges as she resumed texting. We ordered, and her mother showed up. I recognized her as someone I had treated in the emergency room for domestic violence, more than once. Her husband was her high school boyfriend, the father of her children. He worked and got the pay check, she took care of the home. She had wanted help, guidance and support from me—I had given the best advice I had, but she had no financial security of her own, and then she disappeared.
“You look familiar, but maybe I have you mixed up with someone else,” I said. “No, it’s me,” she said, smiling, “and this my daughter. We’re living in our own place, and we both have jobs—things are good. Thank you for the advice you gave me. It took me a while, but I worked it out.” She smiled at me and held her daughter’s hand as Harry and I finished up our last slice.
Take good care of yourselves,
PRISCILLA BENNETT XOXO