I’d learned that money was something to worry about, to ration. It had to be asked for, and then counted out into my red raw hands.
I never forgot—was never allowed to forget—that someone else was paying for my clothes, the food I ate,
even for the heating in the room where I slept. My foster carers received an allowance for looking after me,
and I was always conscious of making sure not to cause them to exceed it by needing things.
And especially not by wanting things. “Allowance” is not a generous, lavish word.
I earn my own money now, of course, but I have to be careful with it.
Budgeting is a skill, and a very useful one at that—after all, if I were to run out of funds, find myself indebted,
there is no one, not a single soul, on whom I could call to bail me out.
I’d be destitute. I have no anonymous benefactor to pay my rent, no family members or friends who could kindly lend me the money
to replace a broken vacuum cleaner or pay the gas bill until I could return the borrowed sum to them on payday.
It was important that I did not allow myself to forget that. Nevertheless, I couldn’t attend Sammy’s funeral in inappropriate clothing.
The black dress, the assistant assured me, was smart, but could also be “dressed down.”
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