INSIDE THE BOOK

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When I was four years old, I became a parent. My nineteen-year-old mother, Sherry-summoned by her heroin addiction-walked out of our basement apartment in Harlem and left me alone to care for my six-month-old brother, Keith. Because I was the older of her two boys, she had often left me in charge when she had to step out before. I learned early how to prepare bottles and change diapers. People called me "Little Man," and by default, I was the man of the house. I knew to keep the door locked and to never answer it.

The last day I saw my mother, her addiction was raging, and once again, she left our apartment with me in charge. How was I to know it would be the last time I would ever see her? Why didn't she come back? Did she just give up? Did she want us in the fi rst place? For many years, those unanswered questions tormented me. I was much too young to fi gure it out then. I only hoped to see her one more time.

All I wanted was to remain a little boy and a big brother. Nevertheless, the day my mother walked out, I instantly became a caretaker and parent. Having already given me so much responsibility so early, perhaps my mother, without fully understanding it herself, had been preparing me for the challenge and for the struggles that lay ahead.