I was 15 years old when the postman knocked on the door and handed me a certified letter bearing my name. I collapsed on the floor in front of my mother holding the $10,000 check sobbing, "It’s over... it’s finally over." I signed the inheritance over to her as a final balloon payment, in exchange for the deed to my life. She cashed that check and held me hostage until the day she died, nine years later. At the hospital, I collapsed on the floor in front of my dead mother sobbing, “It’s over... it’s finally over." Now, 30 years later, I realize it was only the beginning.
George is writing to relieve the pressure in her head, because the Advil isn’t working, and a gun is out of the question. She is the author of Roof.