My mother was in charge of me, for the first time in her life, and neither of us was happy. She' d hired a live-in nanny to deal with me, but the night before my birthday the nanny had left for a family emergency. We lived in the Hamptons when I was a kid, and my mother was a lady of leisure. That's all you need to know." He's seven years older than I am, so he remembers things better, but he never wants to talk about it. When I ask my brother, Matt, about her, he always answers with things like, "She's batshit, Wendy. I have some memories of my childhood, and I can even remember my dad, who died when I was five, but not her. I try to think of the days that led up to that one to see if I missed something about her, but I have no memory of her before then. Not a tiny steak knife, but some kind of massive butcher knife glinting in the light like in a bad horror movie. A couple things made that day stand out more than any other: it was my sixth birthday, and my mother was wielding a knife.
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