My mom and I were never really close. I moved out as soon as I could, at 17 years old. I wanted to be as far from my parents as I could get, yet still within reach. I went from living situation, to living situation. Roommates, living at my sorority house, even living with my brother as two adults. But once I left home for good, when I was 21, I never again lived with my parents. When my folks divorced, there was no home to return to. And I was 22 at the time. Mom and I did not move in the same circles. And my dad had remarried pretty quickly, so he was off in his own world, and rarely intersected with mine. The years went by, and mom fell in love with the love of her life. They traveled and lived all over the western half of the US, from Long Beach on their boat, to Utah and Arizona, and finally back to California. In the meantime, I was married and having my babies. Mom and I intersected on holidays and summer visits. But we did not speak daily, or even weekly. And it is the same with my dad. So when I chose to accept the responsibility of having my mom move in with us, I did not fully understand or comprehend what I was agreeing to.
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