It still stuns me to write those words.

Me. The child who grew up raging against her alcoholic mother. Hating and loving her with an intensity and fear that only children of alcoholics understand.

Me. The teenager that ran as far away as possible, rebelled, blamed, and swore she would be NOTHING like her mom when she grew up.

Me. The young woman who did years of therapy, landed in recovery for families of alcoholics because she was a walking ball of anger and control and hopelessness and ultimately ended up an alcoholic herself.

Me. The adult who had no choice but to lean on her mom when she became a single mother and discovered that the bond her baby girl had with her grammie would be one of the greatest joys ever.

Me. The constant work in progress who went to all lengths to understand and heal from generations of alcoholics and mental illness in her family, including her own, in hopes of changing the trajectory for her daughter.

Me. The daughter who began to see her mother as a whole person and found herself falling in love with her mom and all that she is and has been.

Me. Who thanks god every day that her mom — and only her mom — is the mother she was blessed with.

So, if you were to have told me that one day this nearly homeless, broke ass, baggage carrying, sober single mom would be in a position in her life to not only buy her mother the house next door to hers but would WANT TO… I would’ve said you were crazy.

But that is exactly what has happened. My mom is 90 years old and for this next chapter of her book — and mine — she will be my neighbor.

I can’t wait to borrow some sugar.