When I tell the story of my childhood, my adoptive father, John a gem of a man, who wanted a family as much as we needed a father is often the hero. My mother gets credit for marrying him when I was 10. She did many other things right, Im sure, but I dont remember them, because as Ive since learned firsthand, mothers do not always get credit for things like keeping small people alive and safe and delivering them to school on time with their teeth brushed and their book reports proofread.

When my father left my mom with three young daughters and loan sharks banging on the door, my mother kept us afloat. She sold our house on a cul-de-sac, moved us to an apartment and began working in the city to pay the bills.

As a first grader, I couldnt see the ways she was suffering, the uncertain future she faced, or the responsibility she mustered. To me, she seemed out of control, with angry outbursts I couldnt predict. One morning when I was 8, spacey and bookworm-ish, she tugged me by the hair to the mirror.

You cant wear that shirt to school, she screamed.

Whats wrong with it?

Look at it. What do you see?

Its plaid, I pleaded. Red, black. Thats all! Is it too fancy for school? Too small on me?

Its wrinkled, she screamed, smacking me. Hurry and change. And dont make us late.

When she read this essay, my mom remembered lashing out at me in her closet. Shed lost her engagement ring the night before and she was distraught, retracing her steps to find it. The ring was the last tangible link she had to my father and at that point, she thought he still might return.

But I didnt know that then. Alone, in tears, I went back to my room with the pastel rainbow carpeting. Recently, Mom told me she paid extra to have the wall-to-wall carpeting moved from our house to the apartment, hoping it would feel more like the bedroom Id always known.

Now, I understand how hard she tried. But back then, the familiar carpet was no consolation. Wed moved a state away from my friends and school, from our leafy cul-de-sac and our hammock. I no longer had a dad. And I had to walk on eggshells around my remaining parent, never knowing what might set her off.

Were there other times I was berated for missteps as innocuous as wearing a shirt that needed ironing? The details have thankfully faded, but yes there was yelling on occasions when Id been caught sneaking candy, or on library days when Id lost my books, or when I made us late because Id been absorbed in a book or a daydream.