This was the first time I stepped into my mother’s closet. Looking around at her personal space, I could imagine the memories attached to each article of clothing. It was the first time I realized that my mother had had a life, likes, dislikes, pains, and even dreams of her own before I had come into the picture. I felt somewhat ashamed that, as her child, so much of her own identity had been because it had been pushed aside since my birth.