My name is Daphne. I’m twenty-nine, and until last month, I thought being useful was close enough to being loved.
I’d always been the one they called when things fell apart. I kept a little blue notebook in my purse with every bill, due date, and paycheck written in tight columns.
I knew which store had cheaper eggs and how to stretch soup with rice or noodles.
Still, when my mother, Stella, called, crying, I answered.
“Daph, honey,” my mother whispered into the phone one Monday morning. “I wouldn’t ask if I had another choice.”
I thought being useful was close enough to being loved.