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My mother sat motionless at the kitchen table, her head cradled on one arm, the other extended toward her ever-present coffee mug. This was going to be another of her bad days. It was hard to pinpoint when I’d given up hope that she would pull herself together–that me being in charge would be a temporary thing. But too many months had passed with nothing changing, except somewhere along the way I’d stopped feeling sympathy for her. Or anger. It was easier to not feel anything where my mother was concerned because then I could never be let down.
