by Harriet Goldhor Lerner

Sisters and Other Family Legacies

Last June, following my older son’s Bar Mitzvah ceremony I cornered my mother in the kitchen of my old three-story home in Topeka, Kansas. There I confronted her with the following question: Why had I been put in psychotherapy from the time I was barely out of diapers to what seemed like forever after? As I recently told a friend, I was no crazier than any other kid on the block, but my mother would send me to therapy if I came home with any grade less than a B plus. Of course, I was exaggerating — but not that much.

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