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The witch is dead, which leaves you free at last. Rest in peace, mean Mama. No obituary for her, best forgotten soul, because although you tried (maybe), you couldn't come up with anything nice to say about that old woman who wrapped her arms around herself and cried to the heavens, "It isn't fair! Why me?" while you sat alone and unloved upstairs, out of the way. "Get lost," she'd say. "Pest," she'd call you. "Brat!" And then she'd turn around and barge right in to see what you were up to. No privacy. No secrets. There she was, filling up the doorway and no telling what she was going to want from you this time. Sympathy or penance, it could go either way. Read the whole story HERE