I think it is only fitting that I add a post script to this series of blogs by telling you about seeing Amy yesterday. I haven’t seen her since May, nor heard from her. Apparently she has changed her phone number, but I wasn’t told. That’s fine, she’s not the first one of my kids to do that.


As I mentioned previously, she hadn’t paid a nickel of rent since taking up residence in her apartment last September. The first six months rent were paid in advance, as arranged by my husband, using money we made her save (direct deposit) from jobs we made her get.
(Peanut butter paralysis, Part One; Part Two)


I wish I had a nickel for every time we had conversations about saving the money she was earning, as one day she would be living off of it; and about living under a bridge if she didn’t learn some life skills. This reminds me of my conversation with Deborah Hannah about how many times she discussed addictive personalities and the need to stay away from drinking (because birth dad was an alcoholic) with her now alcoholic son … the same son who assured her he wouldn’t go that direction. Amy never acknowledged my fears, one way or the other … like every other conversation we ever had about her life, her face was blank and impassive.


So anyway, yesterday my husband calls Amy to make arrangements to get together with her in order to facilitate us collecting the nearly three grand that she hasn’t bothered to collect from Unclaimed Money in Indiana. Since we had to pay nearly six months in rent, we’d kind of like this money. She doesn’t answer the phone. A few hours later he shows up unannounced at her apartment, and when she answers the door, she greets him with, “I was just getting ready to call you.”


He had already confirmed there was a notary at our bank branch at Target, so he called me to meet them there, so we could get Power of Attorney and collect this check. (My name is also on this unclaimed money, but since she is over 18, it gets more complicated.) I walked into Target and the first thing I see is that same pouty face I had looked at for years, and years, and years, and years. And it was like a time warp. I acknowledged her presence but said nothing. We did our paperwork, I talked to my husband, and then I left. He bought a few things at Target and then drove her back to her apartment … from 124th Street to 143rd Street. She fell asleep on the way home …


At some point before she completely tuned him out, he told her she needed to be working about 65 hours/week to support her lifestyle. He told her she had completely killed her credit rating so she wouldn’t likely be able to get another apartment, especially around the area of her fast-food restaurant job. So she needed to move into someone else’s apartment or find a friend’s couch somewhere. He told her he had bailed her out the day before her deadline to move out of our home, when she had done nothing, but she was on her own this time.


This will not be pretty and this is exactly what I worked incredibly hard to avoid, but it really didn’t matter, did it?


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