I won't pretend that Catherine Lawrence was the greatest mother.

With all the drinking, the late nights, the strange men in her life, I'd say I'd spent more

time raising my sibling even she did, but I can never quite hate her for that.

She wasn't a good parent, but despite her flaws, I loved her up until the end.

You know, dying surrounded by family and loved ones is what everyone seems to strive for.

And our mother succeeded in that much.

Before us should be alone.

No family to speak out, no living parents or grandparents, brothers or sisters, no one.

Mom didn't often talk about her life, but my understanding was that she'd been orphaned

when she was young.

There'd always been just her against the world.

Maybe that explained why she slept around so much.

Maybe she was afraid the men in her life would abandon her, so she abandoned them first.

Maybe she'd just like being the center of attention during a new romance, maybe it was,

maybe it was something else entirely.

In 32 years of life, I never once thought to ask, and even if I had, I doubt it, I'd ever have gotten a legitimate answer.

My mother kept a lot of things to herself, and they were, they were parts of her that she'd never share with anyone.

I understand that now more than I ever did.

She was 57 when she died.

I'd still say that she died young before cancer wore her down.

She could have still passed for being in her 30s with her long dark hair and a reserved demeanor.

I'd always thought that she'd end up out living all of us, and given how healthy she'd always been.

...