Diane took a deep breath, exhaled and said, �When I was little, my mother and I slept in the park. She called it a camp-out. We practiced our first aid skills. Covering bruises and wrapping cuts. Eating out of Dumpsters. She made it sound like some grand scouting adventure.�

Claire said, �Whew. What a great mom.�

�No, she wasn�t,� Diane said, her face dark. �She kept going back. Again and again. Before long, when I heard my parents fighting, I packed my camping backpack so I would be ready to go when she came to my room, beaten and bloody. I knew that for that one night, I wouldn�t have to be �Daddy�s Pretty Pet.� I actually looked forward to their fights because it meant a camp-out.�

�Oh, God, Diane. That wasn�t your fault.�

�My mother died because of me,� Diane blurted out.

�No, she didn�t.�

�He stabbed her, and when we fled, I couldn�t stop the bleeding. And I didn�t call for help. She died in my arms on a camping trip, and I didn�t call for help.�

�What did you do then?� Claire was riveted.

�When I couldn�t wake her, I went home. My dad called the cops and left before they arrived. I showed them her body. They said if we had gone to the hospital instead of on a camp-out, she would have lived.�

�Oh, Diane.�

�I killed my mother.�

�No, Diane. No, you didn�t. The bastard with the knife killed her. Being a cop makes you go back over your life and find all the mistakes in judgment you made through the years. But, my God, you have to remember that you were just a child. A little kid.�

�I knew about hospitals.�

�Did your mother deny her problem? Did she forbid you to take her to the hospital?�

�That�s not the point. I knew about 911, I knew about hospitals. I should have called anyway.�

�Mothers are powerful people, Diane.�