When he has disappeared, Mother clears her throat. I don't turn around and look at her in the rocking chair. I don't want her to see the disappointment in my face that he's gone.
"Go ahead, Mother," I finally mutter. "Say what you want to say."
"Don't let him cheapen you."
I look back at her, eye her suspiciously, even though she is so frail under the wool blanket. Sorry is the fool who ever underestimates my mother.
"If Stuart doesn't know how intelligent and kind I raised you to be, he can march straight on back to State Street."
She narrows her eyes out at the winter land.
"Frankly, I don't care much for Stuart. He doesn't know how lucky he was to have you."
-- kathryn stockett, the help
I honestly don't think I've ever fully known what I'm worth until the last month or two. there is tremendous power in it.