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Look at me," I added, "I turned out okay." Seven years had passed from the day I had returned home from Iran. My mother had long since gotten over the hunger to be with her grandchildren, particularly as they edged towards puberty. My maturesex daughter greeted me at the door in tears. "She keeps calling me Vicky Iverson. So I leave one book on the kitchen counter and all of a sudden I'm Vicky Iverson?" she gasped hysterically. "Of course, she can leave mayonnaise knives all over the place, but if I leave just one book, I'm Vicky Iverson?" she maturesex continued. I walked into the house that I had left clean that morning to discover that Hurricane Mom had done her worst. I dropped my briefcase on the kitchen floor and found my mother reading in the living room. My son was on his stomach in front of the television. "Hmm, I think someone could use a little fresh air, don't you, Ann?" she hinted, using me as her means of communicating indirectly to her grandson. He continued to ignore her, just as I had always done.
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