I stand in front of the door of my childhood home, memories rushing back to me. It’s always hard to come here because, growing up, this house was just not warm. There was love here, not love that included me. My mom loved me as much as any mom could love their child, but that love tended to be stifled by my dad. He only had eyes for my sisters and often tried to keep my mom from focusing on me. She did what she could whenever she was able, but there were many times that she had to pretend as if. She had to pretend as if my pain wasn’t important, as if my feelings didn’t matter, as if I was less than a member of this family.
If I hadn’t had Mark and Lynn, along with their parents, I’m not sure how I would have gotten through. When my mom couldn’t be a mom to me, I would go to their home.
