Inside the jacket
When my mom was five months pregnant, she made me move into the barn to "ward off misfortune" for my unborn brother.
That was the first time I didn't argue with her. I just said yes.
Because she's an artist with words.
She can always say one thing and mean two.
"My daughter is so sensitive — one little comment and she'll hold onto it for ten years."
"Let her be. Kids having opinions is a good thing. We have to respect that."
For eighteen years, I'd become exactly the daughter she described to everyone else — "difficult," "ungrateful."
