When I first started at the prison, I had thought Dorothy looked familiar to me. It suddenly hits me who she reminds me of—my mother. As I stare across Dorothy’s desk at her square face with her tan chin tilted slightly up in the air, I can’t help but remember how my mother used to boss me around. She always believed she knew better than me, and she couldn’t stand it if I ever disagreed with her—it was her way or the highway. You can’t possibly be thinking of keeping that monster’s baby, Brooke. I won’t allow it. But I kept my baby. I didn’t let her push me around that time. And I won’t let
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