Sorenson (or ma'am, never mom, not her) burst into my bedroom, her blonde hair hanging loose (she always wore it in a bun) and her navy blue robe loos...ly tied. The look on her face was one of fury."What the hell are you up to?" she yelled. "You've interrupted my beauty sleep and more than likely woke up the entire neighborhood!"For fourteen years, my anger at this woman had been building up inside me. She blamed me for everything that went wrong in her life. I had had enough of her verbally. She walked into the living room of the apartment, still trying to puzzle out the meaning of the strange call. ‘Répondez s’il-vous-plaît.’ That was French, wasn’t it? She grabbed her car keys, trying to dredge up memories of a year of junior-high French class. Nothing seemed to be coming to mind. She wished she could just go back to bed–as she passed the clock in the tiny kitchen, she saw that it was well after midnight. But that phone call nagged at her. Instead, she walked out of the. More

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