102

May (Celeste’s mother)

All my life, I’d been looked down on because I was poor.

I worked myself to the bone, yet I could never afford to dress like the wealthy ladies I saw in magazines and on television. Their designer clothes, their perfect hair, their expensive jewelry—I wanted all of it. I deserved all of it.

Why wasn’t I born into wealth? Why was I cursed with poverty?

I blamed my mother for marrying a useless man like my father. A nobody, and a failure.

“May, it’s better to be poor with peace of mind than rich without it,” my mother used to say. She said it constantly, even when she was dying in that shabby hospital bed.

Peace of mind? What good was peace of mind when you couldn’t afford decent clothes? When people treated you like garbage because of where you came from?

I hated being poor.

So when I met my first husband, I was thrilled. I thought he was my ticket out of poverty. He dressed well, spoke confidently, and carried himself like someone important.

But my happiness sha