Something about this strikes me as a key to the story of my mother and me. She often said that I was a different person for my father, that I’d do anything for him, without an ounce of backtalk, as upbeat as a Miss America contestant, and that by the time he got home at night all the fighting was over, so he never knew what it took to get me to turn off the TV or take out the trash. She also said, Lemme tell you something, Kelly, you changed me a lot more than I changed you. I didn’t know adults could be changed. I thought they were finished pieces, baked through and kilndried. I never
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