#Chapter91
I think back to my childhood room in Chicago, I never really felt like it was my home. I never connected with the city, or the people; my own mother … always on edge.
Sarah had been a force to be reckoned with, she was shy and small, and looked vulnerable. So, I swooped in to protect her, in a way that I needed someone to protect me. Except, she wasn’t really that vulnerable at all. She let me believe it, so that I had a purpose, a focus. That’s what I did … I fixed things, helped others have better lives than me, organized things to make it all so safe and steady and predictable. Much like my mother does for her homeless shelter patrons. I was trying to fool myself, trying to detach myself from my own life. It’s why I excelled at my job, distancing my own needs and emotions, and robotically taking control.
Is that what my mother does? Are we more alike than I care to admit?
