eing hurt by them, and those are two different things that people sometimes confuse.
To understand any of this properly, you have to go back to the beginning, which is the day Madison came home from the hospital. I was five years old. I remember my mother holding her and looking at her with an expression I had never seen directed at me, something lit from within, something that said here is the thing I was looking for. I remember thinking that if I was very quiet and very good, she might eventually look at me that way too. I spent the next thirty years being quiet and being good. She never did.
The first Christmas I remember clearly, I was six. I had asked for a dollhouse, the kind with the small furniture and
