Why A Little Loaf Can Make Me Cry

During the summer before I transferred to a four-year university, I substituted for the receptionist at the place my mom worked in downtown L.A.

Mom and I would burst forth from that office building at lunchtime like race horses. She was always so excited about the hustle and bustle of city life, as she would whisk me down a hole that suddenly turned into a restaurant.

"Oh, this place has the best soup!" she would exclaim. "And look at the cute loaf of bread they give you. Personal size!"

Lunch and some window shopping went by quickly and we were back at the office in one of those towering glass and metal buildings.

I think she was quite tired of the sexism and the politics of her workplace, but they paid her buckets full of money, and mom and dad were in a five-year sprint to an early retirement to Sedona. So she put up with it. I could tell having me around for that short time was a saving grace for her too.

Not that was always the case. Mom and I had not talked to each other for a few years before this. She had a problem with me when I was teenager, so I graduated high school and moved out when I was 16. It was for the best, and I was okay. I worked and went to college. I didn't have a car, but I didn't need one.

By the end of my L.A. summer, I was ready to move north to go to school. A year later I got married, and a year after that Mom got cancer.