It is all my mother’s fault. I’m in this wheelchair because of her. She insisted on dressing me up for high tea with her friends. She kept me hidden from the sun’s harmful rays throughout my childhood. She published a book of children’s stories she let it be known were inspired by our close relationship. She demanded I erase entries made in my teen-aged journal, and burned it when erasing proved ineffective. When she was about to remarry, she decided I was a liability, and one afternoon held a pillowcase over my face until I stopped breathing. I didn’t die as expected, but the loss of oxygen to my brain crippled my legs. She then left me stranded here in this institution when she went off on her honeymoon.
Now, you say she wants to visit me?
Tell her I don’t know where I can find the time. I’m too busy writing my book. You might advise her it is based on our close relationship.
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