I screamed at her calling her a bitch, grabbed my backpack and ran out the front door, to my friend’s house a mile away. I was sixteen and had stayed with her for six months. I would need to find somewhere else to live. I would not speak to her for two years.
Anger clouded my judgment and although she had attempted to contact me I had completely shut her out.
Over time my anger transmuted to shame. I replayed the incident and realized my ignorance.
She was not a hoarder but she had a lot of things. Too many. She had tons of wigs: long hair, short hair, brown hair, black hair, straight hair and curly hair. They were kept on mannequin heads throughout the various bedrooms. She must have had hundreds of dresses. They filled the closets in at least four bedrooms. She had rows and rows of shoes neatly lined in individual…
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