Last of the latch key kids, I grew up at the tail end of what is now called Generation X. No helicopter parents for us! We were the half-feral children told to go find something to do and to come home when the street lights came on.
Honestly, out of the house was better for me anyway. My stepfather was addicted to drugs. What should have been a mildly prosperous middle class home was instead plagued with unpaid power bills, TVs and stereos left at the pawn shop never to return, and periodic episodes of domestic violence.
Attuned to the rhythms of unhappiness, I could sense when another binge or blow up was about to happen the same way dogs get a little stir crazy when a thunderstorm is coming. On those days I would tell Mom I was leaving for the bookstore.
