My name is Wanda Walsh. I am 32 years old. And for nine years, my family told everyone I was a waitress.
Every holiday, every birthday, every family dinner at my parents’ house in Ridgefield, Connecticut. My mother would introduce me to guests the same way you might introduce a stain on the carpet, quickly, quietly, and with an apology in her voice. And my father, a man who carved turkeys with more emotion than he ever showed me, would shake his head and say the same six words every single time.
“At least your sister has a real career.” They said it at Thanksgiving. They said it at Easter. They said it in front of the neighbors, the Hendersons, my cousins, and anyone who made the mistake of asking what I did for a living.
