When I was about five, my father had a massive heart attack died. My mother, without a job and left on her own to manage a home and two young children, couldn't cope and had a nervous breakdown. My brother and I were sent from our home in Los Angeles to live with relatives in Chicago. My mother, with the help of a psychiatrist, began to recover.
One evening, my brother and I, desperately missing our mother, sneaked downstairs and called her on the house's only phone. In tears we begged to come back. The call had a startling effect on my mother, shocking her into reality and, with the help of her psychiatrist, began a quick road to vast improvement. Soon, she had a job as an
