Before I try to describe the events that ensued following our move to northern Idaho, I should give the reader at least a quick sketch of what led to the move, and how and why I was with my mother at all.

I wasn't raised by her. I was the inadvertent offspring of my mother, who was biracial and whose parents were divorced and remarried, which was almost unheard of in those days. My dad was the eldest son of a prominent doctor; his family probably had high hopes for him, maybe to follow in his father's footsteps by going to medical school. There was some talk of having me aborted, but instead they'd kept me and basically ruined both their lives as a result. They ended up getting married, and to be honest, I don't think they even liked each other. I think that my dad did love her, while she felt trapped by the motherhood she wasn't ready for and was compelled to do the dutiful, respectable thing. The only childhood memories I have of my parents in the same scene at the same time are upsetting. They both insist I couldn't possibly remember from that long ago, but I do and always have.

Anyway, when I was 3 and my sister a year and a half old, she waved cheerfully at us, peeking through the gap in the front door, smiled sweetly and walked right out of our lives. She nabbed me up a short time later, apparently having second thoughts, but her boyfriend didn't like me. I remember him glaring at me darkly. So she dropped me off on a street corner, having arranged for a family member to come and get me, and took off for good. My dad didn't know what to do with us either, so his parents and my mom's mother raised us until my dad had obtained an education and was ready for us. We lived in a small Midwestern town that I loved with all my heart. It was so small that everyone knew one another and it was safe for me to walk a number of blocks to school. There was a quaint little bakery with an indoor window where you could watch the cake decorator work his magic. I spent many happy hours chasing butterflies, dragonflies and other insects for my collection or crouching in the shade between the hedge and the house scrutinizing snail, slugs, berries, plants, seed pods and other small things. My uncles still lived with my grandparents and were close enough in age to me that they felt more like brothers. I was especially close to my Uncle Charlie. During a time of changes and stress as I entered school, he was a trusted and comforting figure I could always count on.

My maternal, Filipino grandma and her husband lived nearby and we spent a lot of time with them as well. My grandpa (not by blood, but blood means so little anyway) was a quiet, steady carpenter who only got ruffled when my pranks and antics were extreme and even then he was merely gruff. I loved tagging along with him to the hardware stores and puttering next to him in the garden. Grandma was more of a mother to me than my own had ever been, maybe because she wanted to make up for Mom's absence. I was a rather active, imaginative child who did inexplicable things without apology, but she hardly ever complained or scolded me. My sister liked shopping for clothes, so she and Grandma would go to the boring women's stores and look at purses and shoes for hours while Grandpa and I went to more interesting places. Although none of Grandma's family had come with her from the Philippines she was part of a seemingly huge and very close knit Filipino community of warm and loving women who cooked wonderful food and chattered rapidly in Tagalog. As her grandchildren we were also included in all sort of family get-togethers and festivals.

My paternal grandparents had a house so enormous that it was more of a mansion than a house. It was well built and old, with all sorts of interesting antiquated features, built in the Frank Lloyd Wright style. I loved that house passionately; Charlie and I were both upset when Grandpa sold it following my grandparent's divorce and said that when we grew up, we'd buy it back. There was something about the house that embodied what childhood should be. Grandpa bought another house, grand but not nearly as much as the first and Grandma got a practical split level on the other side of town. After that, things were never really the same. My dad moved back and took my sister and I in, but now I was the oldest and our rented apartment lacked the soul and warmth of the other house. I had no brother-like uncle to rely on and run to when I was sad or needed someone to talk to or roughhouse with. He lived with Grandma now, far enough away that I couldn't walk to visit him....and even when we saw him he was different, not happy go lucky anymore.

I missed our little town desperately when we moved to Chicago. I missed Uncle Charlie, the quiet familiarity of small town life, I missed my family, I missed being known as the doctor's granddaughter and having that small measure of respect. I missed my mother. I made up stories when people asked me where she was. She was famous. Or she worked in a candy factory and sent me all the candy I wanted (in reality, I stole the candy, but I think I wanted to believe that she had given it to me, because I almost talked myself into thinking it was true). Sometimes I thought that perhaps she'd died, because nobody ever talked about her, and if they did, it was in whispers, as of a scandal or something awful.

Life in Chicago was pretty wretched. I'm not saying it was all bad...there was the cultural diversity, the food, the museums, the concerts. But when it came to school, every day was an ordeal to be endured, a gauntlet of cruel children to be run through. My sister was popular and had a happy social life, but I seemed to be incapable of conforming to the norm. I actually tried (unsuccessfully) to pay or bribe other kids to be friends with me. They took the gift or money happily and then laughed at me when I asked if they'd be my friend now. There wasn't a label yet for children like me. Nobody knew that I had Asperger's. I could have been diagnosed with ADD, but I don't recall hearing about anyone having that, either. My father, and later his wife, deduced that the problem was my inability to conform, to be more feminine. Not only did I not know how to conform, I didn't want to, not anymore than I wanted to be "feminine", an idea sticky with ruffles and lace that I could not swallow. I couldn't cope as other children could; I couldn't focus in school. The humming of the fluorescent lights, the ticking of the clock, the rustling of papers and sounds of other children disrupted my concentration. Socially and academically, I was a failure. I withdrew into daydreams and fantasies of a happier world, of a world with a mom.

My dad was overwhelmed by the responsibility of raising two girls by himself, and his temper was often short. He married a really nice lady that my sister and I liked, but by this time we were half grown, and....he was the only parent we had really....as sweet as she was, there was still the sense that our father had been stolen away from us, that we were the outsiders, that I was the unwanted one....again.

So when we heard from our mother and she wanted us to visit her, the fruit was ripe for the picking. After the tearfully joyful reunion, she told us deep, dark things about our dad and how she'd wanted us all these years and they wouldn't let her see us. I think I have maybe 3-4 cards from her to show for my entire childhood....but that's not the point- we believed her. We had to believe her. To face the stark truth would have been devastating, and every child wants with their whole, entire heart to feel that their own mother loves them. When you look at it this way, we didn't have a choice. Our dad became the enemy, the villain who had so cruelly deprived us of our mother and the joyful childhood we should have had. You can see it even with livestock. A poor mother can stomp all over her lamb or kid and just about kill it, but take that kid away, and it bawls pitifully and loudly to be returned to its dam...even if the dam is eating calmly and unconcerned as her infant cries out for her. It doesn't matter.

After one month of ninth grade, we got what we'd cried and struggled and fought for, what we'd broken our more dutiful parent's heart to get: he sent us to live with our mom.