I was born between abortions. I am the middle child of three, the youngest placed for adoption at birth. No one could accuse my mother of lacking self-awareness about her capacity for caretaking. Her willingness to acknowledge her limitations - her deficits - is one of her greatest strengths. But it’s dulled by her inability to do anything about them.

My life, the fact that I belonged to this family at all — quite literally a miracle — has, at times, felt like a curse. Narrowly escaping being suctioned from my mother’s womb or alternately placed in another woman’s charge, I suppose I should show some gratitude for having my two feet on the ground here with these people.

I am a product of my mother’s childhood, and when I reflect on my own, I worry about my kids — how much of our story is written by what came before us, by the impact of lives we haven’t even lived.

She was beaten nearly to death when she was three — accidentally locked in the basement, screaming for help while company was over. She had to pay for the careless disturbance. Slapped for cutting a small hole in her underwear when she was removing a tag. Hit for spilling milk.

Between the drugs and dysfunction of her relationship with my father, care and protection were paramount to my mother.