The next day, I woke up. The sun was setting and an angry sunburn had started across my cheek.
I didn’t feel well the next day. It was the worst day of my life. I knew my friends would be upset, but even my husband had some reservations—he was on strike for a week during a strike against the factory, and I had promised my father that I would support him.
I was also relieved to see that my son—who wasn’t very bright yet—had finally started kindergarten again. In the midst of our daily grind working at school and home, he spent less time studying then I did. He had already learned to count and to read.
I was very concerned about what was happening at his job, but I didn’t know why. I had always said that everyone had to earn something after graduation, but the school had apparently given him a very good deal, which led me to believe that perhaps he did deserve some.
What was going on at our home was beyond anyone’s knowledge, and I had no idea who they were. We were too shocked to speak up. He was always so energetic and happy when his parents came over for Sunday morning soccer. I remember him asking me if my mother and dad were