S.L. Harris is an archaeologist, teacher, and writer. Originally from West Virginia, he lives in Chicago with his wife, two children, and faithful hound. When not digging in ancient houses, gardens, or libraries, he can be found trying to keep up with his kids and stray thoughts.
I was twelve when my mother was born. Twelve or thereabouts. If I’d been older, I could have said things like I never wanted to be a daughter; I don’t have a filial bone in my body. Relatives could have tilted their heads at me, insisting I’d change my mind. But I was twelve so I said nothing. I had no relatives.
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