My snobby son-in-law trashed my handmade quilt and called me a “broke lunch lady”…

in Astoria. It was the exact same apartment. The exact same rent. The exact same rattling view of the elevated train tracks.

I could have easily lived absolutely anywhere in the world. I actively chose to stay in this place because it constantly reminded me of exactly where I came from, and more importantly, what truly mattered.

On the faded wall above continue reading …