Damn, Girl. I ❤ u.
It’s safe to say that my husband and I come from very different sides of the track. His upbringing was firmly upper middle class and my upbringing was firmly skipping class to go to work ‘cuz I got siblings and someone has to feed these damn kids.
It was ten years ago this winter, that I trekked up to my husbands beautiful little mountain town to spend Christmas with his family.
But first, a tale from the Ghosts of Christmases past;
I was raised between the foster care system and the streets. Most of my Christmases were spent in the faded lime green or grey walled buildings of mental institutions visiting my mentally ill mother. We used to drink dixie cups of chicken “soup” that came out of the vending machine next to the coffee and hold hands across metal tables, carefully supervised. My mother would give us bright little…
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