Today is my mother’s birthday. She would have been 62.
The last time I talked to her, a week before she passed, she told me she was looking forward to filing for her Social Security benefits. “Already?” I asked, completely incredulous. (My mother never looked her age, and I could never remember how old she was without needing to do some quick math.)
“I’ll be 62 in March,” she said. “I can file for my benefits, and I don’t care if I don’t get all of it. I’m not going to be like your Lola and wait until I’m 65 and die before I get a chance to file!”
How cruel is irony?