It was impossible not to hear. They were talking so loudly. How she didn’t want to go too fast with him. How he was pressuring her. But he really likes you. Everybody knew he wasn’t even over her. But he just wants to be friends. But I don’t know what to do though. (And it went round and round, getting louder with each turn, with no regard to their surroundings.)

If you’re thinking you really don’t want to hear any of this, well, that’s exactly what we thought, getting our coffee in the hotel lobby. And these weren’t even weary guests. No, they were working the hotel front desk. (Working…)

These were adults, I use the term loosely, having the same conversations we had in the seventh grade, only louder.

It was around the seventh grade, I suppose, when I first started to think about money. My mother always told me that “We didn’t have a lot of money, but we weren’t poor.” I always smiled, not because I knew exactly what it meant, but I knew what it felt like. I knew to put my shoulders back. Wear clean clothes. Smooth out the wrinkles. Think of how you are presenting yourself to others. Act like it all matters. (I didn’t have to act — it did matter to me. To us.)

I thought of it today, as all the “dirty laundry” floated around the lobby, flapping with no regard. This is what she meant. My mother was so right. We were never poor. Not of spirit. Of hope. Of dignity. Of worth. Of thought.

As I type this, I fear it may sound judgmental. I can’t speak of whether these people had money or not. That’s not the point. Maybe they didn’t have someone urging them to hold their shoulders back. I did. My life is all the more rich. Daily.

I stood tall with my coffee. Smiled that I had such a mother. And walked away from the lobby. Such sweet silence in knowing — we were never poor.