When I cleared my mother's house out, eight months of work, I found a lot of photos. These lovelies, from left to right are: Susan, Judy, and Sandra (me). We lived on the same block, we grew up together. Judy had a hard life, a drunken wife beating father, the oldest child in a family of seven children. Her Catholic mother finally decided to divorce him, I don't know if she got dispensation from the church or if she'd had one too many black eyes. The year she kicked him out I watched the kids over summer break. Judy was two years younger than I. I was 13. They ended up poor in a housing project. Judy stopped talking to me, I understand now, but I didn't then. Not all childhoods are idyllic. Not all memories are rosy.
I connected with Susan several years ago. She commented that her family and mine were the only normal people on the block. She didn't know what went on behind the walls of my house, we looked so normal. Susan ended up with a good life after a rocky start. I ended up with a good life, also after a rocky start. I hope Judy did, too.
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