I think of her distantly, like someone I knew from an intro-to-biology class my first semester in college, instead of the woman who raised me. I don’t know what she makes of me, now. Everything I am is proof that she was wrong about me, and yet the woman I’ve known for my entire life does not apologize, does not admit to fault. I believe that she loves me, in the same way that I believe that it’s best that we are not a part of each other’s lives. Because my identity has been shaped by what she is not; she is, for me, an example of how not to conduct a life.
