My mother was a drug addict. When I tell people, they act like I am too.

Every morning when I look into the mirror I see pieces of my mother — glimpses of her features in my eyes, my hair, my cheekbones. People have been saying since I was a child how much I looked like her.

She was a beautiful woman. I should have been happy.

Instead I only ever heard an accusation: that I looked like my mother and must therefore be the same as her, that I was destined to grow up and repeat all of her mistakes.

It's why I don't usually tell people the truth about my mother...

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