Dear Lily,

Ever since I wrote about it, I can't stop picturing my mother's face as she threw that huge glass ashtray at me. 

After our mother screamed again for me to get out, your Aunt Mary came running just as I fled and she asked what happened.

“She...” I said, as I pointed into our mother’s room, “…is horrible. Simply horrible.” Even at the age of nine, I knew that there was something seriously wrong with her, but most adults don’t understand sicknesses of the brain, never mind a child who is the victim of its repercussions.

I went to my room and immediately ripped up the crumpled valentine. I refused to eat dinner with my father and sisters, choosing instead to cry int...

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