My mom and I were going through a scrapbook of things I wrote as a kid together. Like assignments, diaries, teacher’s notes, etc. It was late afternoon and the light was soft and dim at home. I was in her arms. We were sitting in the living room. A man walked by the window and I made eye contact with him. I then felt the need to protect ourselves, so I closed all the curtains and locked all the windows and doors. I already sat back down when she asked if I checked the kitchen window too. I said yeah. She nodded in approval. Then I ran to the kitchen to check again and brought out a pair of scissors. She told me not to worry and to go to my dad’s room; in the second drawer under the bed there is a red box of my dad’s favorite desserts. On the last page of this giant binder there’s a note from someone, probably my kindergarten teacher, that praised my mom for bringing me up although I was like “a broken tv that tries really hard but still couldn’t get any signal.” Up until this point I felt happy and nostalgic reading all these memories and learning about who I was as a child, but that note made me feel like I was a burden. It came as a shock.



United States

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