MY MOTHER LEFT ME BEHIND AT AN AIRPORT WHEN I WAS ONLY EIGHT—WALKING AWAY WITH HER NEW HUSBAND AND HIS CHILDREN WHILE I CLUTCHED A BACKPACK AND A STUFFED BUNNY. WHEN SHE RETURNED, MY BEDROOM WAS EMPTY… AND LEGAL DOCUMENTS WERE WAITING FOR HER.

Chapter One: The Mathematics of Being Left Behind

Most people remember being eight through scattered memories of playgrounds, scraped elbows, and summer afternoons. My eighth year, however, is carved permanently into my mind beneath the sterile fluorescent lights of Denver International Airport. More specifically, Gate C32.…continue reading …