My mother never spoke to me again. Not even one letter.

She never got it. That wasn’t me.

Sure, I loved being that person. I loved art. I loved band. I loved being smart. Always having the correct answer.

But most of all, I loved to write.

And I didn’t need Harvard to show me that.

I loved all those things, but I wasn’t happy.

I’m happy now. I still take photos. Develop them in the tub of my tiny apartment bathroom. I’m safe here.

I can see the ocean from my desk. I have my shelves of books. I have this old typewriter with a fresh ribbon. I have 2 cats, Simon and Schuster. 2 bearded dragons, Irwin and Steve. I have my gold fish, Freddy.

I might not make the $100,00 my mother envisioned for me. But I don’t need it.

I love my apartment above this little old lady’s garage. I love the cookies she brings me every Tuesday. I love seeing my stories, my articles in print in those random magazines and papers. I love being on my own and my job at the village bookshop.

And it makes me happy, how I live now.