Write the right answer to the question based on the context passage.

I have never had a lot of money. But I don't believe you have to have a lot for it to become burdensome. Money has always seemed to be a burden. Either you have it and the obligation and responsibility becomes a burden (so I've been told, ha) or you don't have it and life without money becomes a burden. I guess money became a burden to me when I started paying my own bills.
Let me explain. I raised my 2 girls by myself. I was fortunate to have a good job as an office manager for a doctor in Dallas. I was able to pay my bills and juggle things around to afford what the girls needed for school and what not. When I didn't have money for something they wanted I felt like I carried the world on my shoulders. I didn't let them know how stressful it all was because I felt like it was none of their business. They were kids and needed to be kids. They would soon enough be feeling the stress of managing their own household and shouldn't be asked to help shoulder that burden as kids.
Once, me and my youngest daughter, who was an adult at this time, went to a drive in fast food place and got a couple of drinks. My daughter was treating me and when the car hop came to deliver the drinks, my daughter gave her $5.00 as a tip, which was more than the drinks! I, of course, asked why she did that and she told me that they live off their tips and she knew what that was like having been a waitress before. I said something about her needing the money as well and how money makes the world go around. She said "No, Mom, you can be dead-assed broke and the world is still going to go around."
That was when I quit letting money be a burden. Question: Who gave the car hop a $5.00 tips?
her daughter

I lost my baby boy at 31 weeks of pregnancy in February 2013.
My heart shattered into a million pieces that weekend in February.
I knew that I wanted the chance to bring home another live, healthy baby in my arms.
I had some medical issues that would concern doctors during a uncomplicated pregnancy and would put me at high risk if, and that at the time was a big if I was able to get pregnant, and could I make it past the second trimester.
I had doctors who supported my decision to try again, but my body wasn't co operating.
2015. I got pregnant, straight on the medication I needed, lots of blood tests.
Got a horrible sinking feeling something went wrong at the 6 week stage, bleeding at 8 weeks. At 9weeks of pregnancy, got a scan and no heartbeat was found. I choose the d&c operation, I couldn't deal with seeing the miscarriage blood for days.
I tried to convince myself to give up, move on. Wasn't an easy thing to do, but the depression and sadness wasn't fair to my 6 year old son. He needed his mummy who was always sad, in his mind.
About 6 months later, I was having a scan. This time, I had a strong heart beat on screen.
The pregnancy was extremely high risk, consultant led, daily injections, scans every 2 weeks from 18 weeks. No guarantees of a good outcome.
Planned c section at 38 weeks. Healthy baby girl. I was lucky, I got the chance to have my happy ever after.
Was it worth the heartache and infertility caused by stress - yes
Was it worth the terrifying 34 weeks of pregnancy- yes
Do I miss and wish the baby boy I lost at 31 weeks was here - every day
For me, being bloody minded and stubborn worked out for me. Question: Who didn't deserve to see the writer be sad and depressed
the writer's 6 year old son

November always dragged around the station, but today was one dead Sunday. Not one car pulled off the interstate all morning. Nothing hit the drive but a thin steady rain, puddling slow rainbows in the oil. Me and Harnie just tilted back our chairs against the cigarette rack, watched the monster movie, and waited for the game to start. The big flying turtle was about set to barbeque downtown Tokyo when the drive bell rang, and up sluiced a car so damn gorgeous it hurt to look at it. A '37 Buick Roadmaster it was, painted a red so rich it was nearly black, that straight eight engine whispering like a lover while teardrops of rain rolled down the chrome grill. Out climbed this tall fellow, dressed like God's grandpa done up for a wedding or a funeral. His skin was brown as a buckwheat cake, with creases deep as drainage ditches. Took a mighty long stretch of sweat and toil, love and birth and dying, to carve a face like that. He flexed his shoulders, then rolled his neck till it cracked. He pulled a pack of Camel straights from inside his vest and flipped one out. "Got a light?" His voice was deep and warm, half gravel, half honey. I tossed him a pack of matches through the open door; he caught it left-handed, then flipped it open, folded over a match, and struck it with his thumb. "This the town with the dead fiddler?" he said after a long drag on the smoke. "You might say so," I said, ignoring the look Harnie gave me. Nobody talked about her; I wondered how this fellow had even heard about her. "Ain't a fiddle, though. It's a cello, like in the symphony." The stranger shrugged. "Close enough." "She ain't d-dead, neither," Harnie said. "M-more sleeping, like." He puffed out a wreath of smoke. Then another. "Let's go wake her up," he said. "You best not try, mister," I said. "She been sleeping for thirty some year." Question: Who pulled up at the scene?

A stranger

