Maybe it is Me

“She’s depressed and I’m worried about her.”I overhear my mom say this to her brother who is visiting, the funny, soft-spoken one with the tall, charming son, and the brilliant daughter I never quite measure up to. It is the first time anyone has ever used the worddepressedto describe me. I’m ten years old and I’ve been going for long walks in the backyard, or spending hours hidden in the blanket fort I’ve built in my room, readingThe Hiding Place, a book about the Holocaust.“She isn’t doing...