From what I’ve been told, my mother was kicked out of her parents’ house. Grandma was strict—sometimes to the point of being… eccentric. The breaking point came during my parents’ senior year. There was a dance, something the seniors always attended. My grandmother forbade my mother from going and warned that if she did, she wouldn’t be allowed back home.

It mattered to both my parents. My father decided they would go anyway. True to her word, my grandmother didn’t let her back in.

My mother moved into a small studio apartment in Mars Estates, Essex, Maryland. She later called it the “roach motel.” The sofa doubled as her bed. A blanket with an old truck on it, along with a few pillows, created a makeshift sitting area. She bought a stereo cabinet and a small table with chairs; simple things to make it feel like home.

My dad worked at Crown Cork & Seal and would sometimes bring home leaking soda cans he could get cheaply. My mom drank plenty of them. My uncle would often stop by on his way home for dinner, then go home and eat again.

My mother’s memoirs suggest I was conceived on Labor Day (September 2, 1974) when my dad stayed the night. My Uncle Stanley and Aunt Mary Joe were there for a small gathering, and my mother believed my Aunt Kathy and Dave may have been there as well.

I was born on May 28, 1975, 38 weeks and 2 days later, or 266 days after.

After my birth, my parents began looking for a house. They found one, secured a loan, and gave notice to leave the apartment. But at closing, my father was told he wasn’t old enough to qualify and would need to wait two more weeks.

During that transition, my parents and I moved back to my grandmother’s property, living in a camper outside her home.

Note About Barbara Moten’s Memoirs

When my mother was diagnosed with stage four cancer, she asked what we wanted from her. I asked for her memories—written or recorded—because I realized I didn’t fully know her as a person. Over the course of a year, she poured herself into that work and gave me a large binder before she passed.

Her words now sit beside my own as I piece together my childhood. In some places, I’ve paraphrased her memories through my younger lens to keep the story moving, but her voice remains at the heart of it.

The journal is extensive. It took years to read, and some parts still hurt. Memories fade unless they are retold. Through these posts, I carry her voice forward alongside mine.