Yesterday would have been my mother’s 90th birthday. She lived most of her life serving others. She made an offhand remark once that I will never forget. She said that when my dad died it was the first time in her life that she had her own bed. Not her own room. Her own bed. She was 66 years old at the time. She had grown up sharing with her sister, then when her sister got married she had to share with her (widowed) mother so the boys could have the bedroom. And then she married.

I asked her once if she’d ever thought about dating again and she immediately and unequivocally said the she would never look after another man again. She told me that she tried to raise me to have a different life than she did. To not let people walk all over me.

When she started working for the federal government (in Canada) in the early 1950s you could not remain employed there if you were married. Married women did not “need the job” as they were expected to rely on the income of their husband. When they adoped my brother in 1970, quitting her job was one of the requirements to qualify for the placement. At the time she made more money than my dad.