The growing cohort: women 55 years to 80 years on the street, living in domestic violence . . .
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Kelly Hansen, CEO NOVA for Women and Children
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Working Girl
By Carol
My mum was the only parent I knew. She worked part-time in a factory and some nights she would get dressed up to go out and come back early the next morning. After those nights, Mum always let us buy something from the shops and we got a choice of food for dinner.
Mum always had a long shower and slept the next day so whatever she did was hard work.
Sometimes I would see a man, different ones, sometimes leaving the house when I was on my way home from school. I never knew who they were or why they were there. They never spoke to me.
I never met my father. Mum told me he was sick and couldn’t look after himself which meant he couldn’t look after us. Years later I found out Mum never knew who he was.
Our house was an average house. We had food, toys and clothes. Mum used to get really angry about bills and I never knew why or what a bill was; I just remember when she would yell at us for leaving a light on or the water running.
Years later, I was told that my mother was a “working girl”, I didn’t know that meant more than she worked in a factory. My mum did what she could and I loved her and never knew just how poor we really were or that my mother was a prostitute. I didn’t know and, if I knew, I don’t think I cared because I was loved. And I still don’t care.
By Carol
My mum was the only parent I knew. She worked part-time in a factory and some nights she would get dressed up to go out and come back early the next morning. After those nights, Mum always let us buy something from the shops and we got a choice of food for dinner.
Mum always had a long shower and slept the next day so whatever she did was hard work.
Sometimes I would see a man, different ones, sometimes leaving the house when I was on my way home from school. I never knew who they were or why they were there. They never spoke to me.
I never met my father. Mum told me he was sick and couldn’t look after himself which meant he couldn’t look after us. Years later I found out Mum never knew who he was.
Our house was an average house. We had food, toys and clothes. Mum used to get really angry about bills and I never knew why or what a bill was; I just remember when she would yell at us for leaving a light on or the water running.
Years later, I was told that my mother was a “working girl”, I didn’t know that meant more than she worked in a factory. My mum did what she could and I loved her and never knew just how poor we really were or that my mother was a prostitute. I didn’t know and, if I knew, I don’t think I cared because I was loved. And I still don’t care.
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