Why are female meteorologists forced to wear cocktail dresses on air, while men can wear suits? I suddenly think. Why are women often held to different standards than men although they do the same jobs?

I think of the time—at a holiday party years ago—when a drunken male coworker, ten years my junior, same job title, fewer accounts, bragged about the holiday bonus he was receiving.

“Yours must be huge,” he slurred, “considering you pulled in a Clio this year.”

I hadn’t received a bonus.

“Do you mind if I ask how much you make?” I asked, knowing he likely wouldn’t remember the conversation in the morning. When he happily blurted a figure that was roughly 30 percent higher than mine, I left the party in a rage and arranged a meeting with my boss the first day back in the offices.

“But you have a family. Your husband makes a wonderful living,” he told me, as if that were a rational explanation.

When I demanded equal pay, my boss offered a 3 percent increase and said he’d “try” to catch up my pay. He never did. And my coworker was promoted ahead of me, time and time again.

I stare at the ribbon of water sparkling like tumbling diamonds. My mom loved this little stream, the way it appeared out of nowhere and meandered through the woods, down the dune and into the big lake.

“That’s the difference you can make in this world,” she would always tell me. “The big lake wouldn’t be grand without all of the tributaries that feed it. Sometimes, you don’t know the difference you make when you’re going it alone.”

I understood what she meant but regret not asking her more stories about her life. I regret not quitting my job when I was given a small raise, for not going to HR, for not doing anything but silently accepting this is the way the world works for women.

Don’t live with regret, I can hear my mother saying to me.

Decaying leaves and pieces of white birch bark float quickly down the little stream like boats, and as the sun angles more, I can see directly to the bottom. Sand, rocks and colorful stones compose the creek bed. Sandy soil is the hallmark of west Michigan’s ground. When my mom would garden, each shovelful of earth was half soil, half sand. And nearly every shovel turn would unearth a rock or stone that had been deposited at some point over the years from the shoreline.