Two years ago, I wrote about separating the home from hometown. “No contact” had already entered modern parlance. More therapy-speak misappropriated, an oversimplification of a complex problem. It didn’t appear in that article and, looking back, I can see why. I wasn’t quite “over it,” and not as enlightened as

Family is complicated. There are no small parts, only small players. Although it didn’t feel like it at the time, being the black sheep put you ahead of the game. You were gifted with a clarity you knew would be useful someday, but how? For what? To whom? You know

Two contradictory statements can inhabit the same place, even peaceably. Boundaries can be porous. For instance, I love the gift that is my life. My mother should not have had children. Like many transplants, I ran to San Francisco as fast as I could to get far and away from