the-gingerbread-house
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I don’t have a flair for words or understand the nuances of writing. It all seems convoluted and complicated to me. Of course, I came to it late in life. I didn’t learn to read until I was 14, writing came much later. It was believed I had some form of brain damage, or so
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Chapter One In mid-December 1971, a social worker named Mrs. Erickson drove my twin brother and me along the winding road of La Collina Drive in Beverly Hills, focused on one mission: finding us a home. At five, we’d already been through too many, but she swore this time was different. “This is the one,”

