No parent is so blind as the one who refuses to see.
My mom wasn’t home over the weekend, but no one would believe that if they were listening in on her phone conversation. It was a Monday morning, sometime in the fall of 1993, and my mother was on the phone with her sister, rewriting the narrative of my life.
Every weekend since we had moved to this god forsaken desert three years prior, she had flown back to our old home in another state. It was my dad’s gift to her, a promise he had made when he took this new job in New Mexico. His wife would continue to spend her weekends playing soccer with friends and visiting family.
I don’t think I minded too much, really. My mom and I did not get along. Somehow, I knew I wasn’t the child she had really wanted. I wasn’t a boy, I wasn’t sporty enough, I didn’t live to compete.
Jenny Wren 