My snobby son-in-law trashed my handmade quilt and called me a “broke lunch lady”…

kitchen shift at Public School 117, elbow-deep in industrial suds and smelling permanently of institutional green beans, when I overheard two homeroom teachers gossiping by the coffee percolator. They were talking about a foreclosed, dilapidated row house down in Jamaica, Queens. The bank was desperate to offload it for sixty-two thousand dollars. continue reading …