She was just a girl when she met my father. He was a ski coach and she was working in a local bar. He was nine years her senior, but that doesn’t seem like much when you think about love. Before she knew it, she was driving from Vermont to be with him in Aspen. There, they would decide to marry. She was just 20 years old.

In 1970, the two were young lovebirds without a care in the world. My dad had accepted a job managing a small ski area in upstate New York. They made their way across the country picking out rocks for the fireplace of their dream home. If there was one thing about my dad, it was that he was persistent. The fact that they didn’t own any property in New York didn’t change his plans.

They settled in a small cottage in the Finger Lakes. The house wasn’t winterized, but my dad installed a small potbelly stove for heat. He worked hard and my mom went back to school. My mother wanted a child, but because they both had fertility problems, they decided to adopt. The home study went well, except for the lack of sufficient heat for winter. But they persisted. They bought more land and planned for their dream house.

In two short years, the baby had arrived, but the house was far from being completed. They found a rental up on a rolling hill that was suitable for the winter. It was perfect for bringing home their new bundle of joy. My mom was just 25.

It is hard to imagine the joy of one new mother and the despair of another, all over the same child. As I was ripped from one mother’s arms and placed in my other mother’s, there is a disconnect as to the lasting mental health effects on these three beings. For my adoptive mother, this meant that she should be experiencing all the joy of having a new baby. This is what society expects. But was that what my mother expected? Maybe she thought I would fill a hole – a hole in her psyche or a hole in the marriage. Either way, a new baby cannot fill these chasms and may actually exacerbate them.

Things went well for a while. I remember finding wonderful play-worlds in the new construction as doors went up and floors went in. My mom and dad built their dream home with their own hands – right down to the two-story fireplace that displayed every rock they had collected on their cross-country trip. As it was ready for us to move in, baby number two was ready for delivery. It was 1976 and my mom was just twenty-nine.

What happened during the next six years is a blur. I lay frozen in my bed during many fights and sometimes my mom would leave and be gone for hours. I would peek out the window and watch her station wagon leave the steep driveway and disappear down the hill. I wondered how long she’d be gone.

Then she is away for a few days, maybe a week. It is one of several hospitalizations she will require over the upcoming year. She is depressed and needs some time to relax. She has probably been contemplating her own demise, but no one would ever say as much. I visit her once while she is gone, and she is dressed in her robe in the middle of the day. I decide not to ask about it and just hug her and tell her I miss her. She has no idea how much I miss her.

The events of the night of her death will never be known. She was with my dad and then she was on her own in her station wagon coming to pick up us kids. She never made it, her car careening over a cliff on the way. She was just thirty-five.