Growing up, I hated being called Sam.
And if you did, I would correct you.
One time, I was working on a group project. And Randi called me Sam. So I corrected her.
She apologized, but Beth was annoyed. She told me that I didn't need to be so mean.
It wasn't a big deal.
Please tell me you see the irony.
Her name was Elizabeth. She went by Beth.
Our raised voices caught the attention of the teaching assistant, who took me aside. She was my favorite and always so kind.
She listened as I relayed what happened—fully expecting her to support me.
But, in her quiet, kind way, she admonished me.
Correcting people for calling me Sam was mean, and I shouldn't be like that if I wanted to make friends.
YOU ARE READING
What My Mother Forgot
Non-FictionBefore reading this, you should know... This is not a happy story. There is no happy ending. Simply put, this is a chronological account of the abuse, neglect, and bullying I suffered at the hands of loved ones from birth to 17 years old. It does no...
