It might be

Recently I took a number and a seat in the local Social Security office. The clock ticked impassionedly. The gray walls reflected the stormy sky outside. My plastic chair had a crack in it, so I moved to another behind a jittery teenage couple and their baby boy. The drab office—with its “official” sitting behind a glass window in the middle of one wall—seemed an inappropriate environment in which to take care of personal, and sometimes very private, business. I was there to change my name, a simple straightforward request that carried no baggage or shame. Still, I felt intimidated just by the atmosphere. An occasional rustle of a magazine was the only thing that drowned the strained silence in the room.
A middle-aged woman was sitting in the front row with three daughters. I began to observe this little family, thinking back about twelve years when my own kids were the same ages. Because I’ve
been there, it wasn’t hard to recognize telltale signs of on-the-edge survival. The mother looked tired and worried. When she got up to go to the window, her older daughter stuck by her side, listening to everything that was said, a nervous look in her blue eyes. I felt empathy for that girl for having to take on a role she should not have so early in life. She was obviously nervous about the outcome of the meeting. The younger girls, dressed in ill-fitting clothes and shoes, were scuffling around, teasing each other, charming in their own way. The mother looked helpless as she spoke in an earnest tone with the official. The girl by her side turned to scold her sisters. Before long the family trooped out through the heavy door, subdued, the mother looking sadder than ever.