One of the earliest memories I have is one of my family.
But we weren’t the kind of family you’d see at the park, the ones with smiling parents buying their screaming children ice cream cones with rainbow sprinkles.
No, this memory is of my parents, fighting.
I think I’ve already told some of you about this memory, but here it is for everyone else. Actually, more for me. I’m able to look back with a sort of emotional detachment and mull it all over.
But anyway, this is it, unedited both in my mind and in words:
Even though my door was closed, my parents were an entire floor away, and there...
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