Chapter 1: A Mother’s Echo

What was my mother's walk like? How did her voice sound, and what was the texture of her hands? Even the scent of coffee mixed with Jergen's lotion has faded from my memory. When I close my eyes, all that remains are a handful of old photographs. Despite living together for nearly eighteen years, our emotional and physical closeness was limited. We would occasionally visit each other, especially during the last decade of her life, when I attempted to discuss my childhood with her. Unfortunately, those conversations did not go as I had hoped.

During this time, my father had come close to death and was now living with me, while my mother remained in Alaska, calling almost daily. "Cindy, your sister has turned you all against me," she would claim. "I was never a bad mother; she’s fabricating stories." That was when I finally reached my limit.

In response, I penned a lengthy letter explaining that it wasn't just my older sister who remembered our mother’s temper and her abusive behavior, particularly toward my oldest sister; we were all victims