This picture was taken two days after my mother left the family for another man, leaving behind for 6 weeks, broken hearts and fear. Please remember that writers (not reporters) enjoy the privilege of writer's discretion, changing facts to fit their need.

This smiling child grew up in a house without laughter.
She found her comfort in written words, the library’s sanctuary.
Sometimes World Book Encyclopedia had to do.
She learned happiness in Grandmother’s lap.
Listening to poems she couldn’t understand,
But sharing the experience of words and the comfort
Of Grandmother’s Tweed perfume scent and knobby, nubby softness
She chanced upon a lost puppy once. She loved him like a brother.
He ate something set out for dinner,
And was promptly sent away. That’s how her house worked.
She was careful not to ask for anything, to sit still and quiet.
She did not want to be sent away like the puppy.
The small child grows to young adult and more.
Still, she doesn’t rebel. She smiles,
She works. She earns a degree.
Her fears dig more deeply inside her,
Biting, gnawing daring her to dream.
Until one day, a teacher, a martinet behind the lecturn,
Reads her work to the class, saying, “Do you see?
Here is a writer. Here is raw pain.
Here is how you begin.”
One magic moment ignites
The fire that raged inside. And she goes from fiddling with the kindling of words
To freeing memories onto paper, despite the pain,
Opening her eyes, seeking other souls
Those who understand the battle.
Writers write for a reason.