My mother was mean. Seriously. Most of my memories of her center around being yelled at, criticized, slapped or belittled. That caused me to become very independent at a young age. I became contemplative long before I knew the meaning of the word. Introspection was how I handled pain. Still is…sometimes. Growing up was more of the same. The wounds were deep and she seemed to take delight in twisting the knife. My sister felt the same way. As a young boy, I often wondered how
She came into my office holding a crumpled letter. She stared at the floor for a while, and then said, “I can’t get beyond this. I can’t forget what she said to me.” I asked for clarification. “This letter,” she said. “The things she wrote in it. They’ve destroyed my life.” “How long have you had the letter?” I asked. “Three years,” she said. “How many times have you read it?” I inquired. “Oh, dozens of times,” she said, “maybe more.” “Give the letter to me,” I said. “What?