I was the biographer of one woman, but I was also writing my own life.
Because our religion always marked us as oddities—the people who didn’t believe in doctors—my mother cringed at anything she thought was not socially normal.
I called my children by each other’s names, missed appointments, left my keys in the running car.
She convinced herself that the people on the walls were really her family.
What do the noises from my side sound like to them?
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