I am quite fond of this piece — I hope you will be too.
The first time grandma took me to the airport in Rio de Janeiro, I threw a tantrum like she’d never seen. I threw myself on the ground, pulled out my hair, tried to bite chunks of flesh out of my arms, screamed so loud people on the other side of the airport could probably hear me.
I was six years old, and if there was anything I knew, it was that I didn’t want to live with my mother and her new family in California. I’d met the man she ended up marrying once, and I’d gotten such an disquieting sense of his soul badness that I’d stuck my tongue out at him and run out of the room. I didn’t really want to meet my younger sister either. Well, maybe I did a little, but not enough to actually…
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