Summary of “My Runaway Childhood”

In the small roach-infested apartment I shared with my mom, I took my time.
In the two years before I fled, the abuse had gotten worse: her need to control me, locking me in closets or the bathroom; ordering me to clean the apartment at all hours, scrubbing the carpet with nothing but toilet paper and water, scraping the crust off the rim of Mom’s toilet.
Summer of 1982, my mom and I came to Los Angeles.
On the way to the group home, I remembered all the times my mom bent over me and kissed me goodnight, whispering, “The princess is sleeping.”
Cop cars driving along, probably on their way to pick up another kid who was being taken from their mom.
My mom did not do those things so she could not relate, and pulled her seat a little bit out of the circle, keeping herself at a distance from the others.
Each time someone boarded the van, the little boy next to me hollered out, “I’m gonna see my mom today!”.
Only now am I attempting to rebuild our relationship, “Mom” rolling around in my mouth like a bizarre gumdrop.

The orginal article.