It would be absurd for me to assign a figure to the wealth of Beatrice Brampton.

Why you ask? Because I couldn't even count that high.

You see, Beatrice and I didn't come from the same background. We didn't attend the same schools. And we certainly didn't socialize or have the same circle of friends.

Why not you ask? Because I lived on the other side of the tracks.

Railroad tracks that is. The dividing line. You know the one between rich and poor, the one between the top of the hill where the mansions are compared to the bottom of the off-beaten path where the wood frame houses are barely held together with a rusty nails and rotten boards. And lastly, we certainly didn't vacation together in trendy resorts that was the rage ten years ago.

And whose fault was that you may ask? Now that's where I'm going to split hairs.

Because straightaway I'll remove partial blame from my mother, because that's where my siblings believed it should lie, and heap it upon the head of the person whose justly deserved it. My Father.

The oldest of six children, the responsibility for caring and providing for the younger ones landed reluctantly in my lap. A sudden pang struck me as my mother's puny face and frame flashed before me. A victim of circumstance and bad judgment.

If you can rouse my father to some semblance of consciousness, ask him how many kids he had, their names, ages, and birth dates. If you succeed in retrieving one correct answer, you'll have accomplished a great feat. Something my mother hadn't been able to do since I've known her.

And that would be twenty-two years.

Just thinking about the dire situation in which my family sank the last decade was enough to quicken the black mood that invariably descended.

I flung the washboard across the room. The wall on the other side saved me a week's wages being deducted. My siblings gave it another name each time I mentioned Beatrice Brampton.

With satisfaction of an imagined victory, I slowly strode over to the opposite laundry room and retrieved the washboard, then headed back to my washing station. Two other employees who watched my outburst shook their head while leaning closer. Pausing for moment, I caught the tail end of their conversation.

"She'll not get a vacation now," Gladys, the young lady roughly my age assigned to the station next to me, pointed out correctly.

That fact didn't register. I'd no money saved, nor any would remain from that week's paycheck. Besides, who would take care of the younger children if I didn't return home nightly?

Worn out from standing ten hours at that minimum-wage job, my thoughts turned to the three spoiled Hampton younger siblings of Beatrice that she paraded through the business. Harrison, Beula, and Amelia. Lucky them, I reflected, seething. They were destined to inherit the Brampton family business.

My eyebrows scrunched together and forged a burgeoning crease as I formulated my scheme.

If Mrs. Brampton were standing in this spot, I'd spit in her face, then walk away and grab my coat. Outdoors, I'd head home with a single-minded focus...exacerbate the gossip igniting about her. That should ruin or at least shut down her beloved business.

A few feet away, I'd calm down and realize the colossal mistake I'd made. But it would be too late. Beatrice didn't give second chances. Not when she was extending herself to keep all staff intact after the recent city-wide layoffs. Her establishment was founded on solid business principles.

Beatrice Brampton. The benevolent benefactor.

The venom in my eyes subsided. I returned to the job at hand, staring deeply into the soapy water. I turned sideways and spat anyway on the concrete floor beside my station to relieve the frustration.

Instantly, thoughts drew me unexpectedly to an encounter last year. Having the opportunity to meet Beatrice personally, we stared deeply into each other's eyes, not able to break the connection. Besides being well-educated, beautiful by my standards, and elegantly dressed, her soft-spoken demeanor away from the business contrasted to her outward authoritative personality she displayed.

My heart pounded as I shook her hand. A strong clasp, it was as if I'd reached down and bared her soul. And the feeling was akin to mine.

Hurt. Heartbreak. Disappointment. But those emotions were buried deep and overshadowed by a more powerful one. Determination. Bitter, seething words I'd stored up intended to provoke her subsided. For over a year, I searched my own soul for answers. The frustrating part was that none surfaced. Except in her eyes, my father appeared.

Shaken, I leaned over and grabbed a handful of soap. The result was angry tears flowing into the wash sink.

Just as I'd washed away most of my anger, the head attendant announced that Harrison Brampton, Beatrice's younger brother, had entered the building to conduct an unannounced inspection of the laundry facility.

Not enough time to undo the puffy eyes, so I wiped my hands and face, tidied my hair, straightened my uniform, and stood ramrod straight awaiting his approval.

[to be continued]

Welcome back to my freewrite prompt story for this week. The photo that is the subject of the story spoke to me about a person :

Describe what you see.
An elegantly-dressed woman of color in a brown, sparkling outfit. She's adorned with jewelry on several fingers. A beautiful gold necklace fits perfectly on her upper chest. Well manicured nails in a pear shape works well with her long, slender fingers. In her right hand, she holds a drink. Light dances off her outfit.

Describe what you feel.
The woman is attending some type of party. By the way she's holding her hands, I feel she's comfortable. Perhaps having a conversation with someone familiar. The party facility appears dark. Perhaps it's just the lighting.

Write a story or poem about what you think is going on. I leave with you my story for: A Picture is Worth A Thousand Words - 1/4/25.

^{Image used with permission of contest owner}