I grew up in my mother's hoarder home. It wasn't that bad - that's always my instinctive add-on, not that it comes up a lot. No, I never watched the A&E series; I was too afraid of what I'd see. Growing up in a hoarder's house is something I wanted to put far behind me once I was old enough to move out. My husband and kids will never see my childhood home.

I love my mother dearly. She sacrificed a lot and poured her heart into raising me on her own. But she has demons like anyone else. Hers came in the form of delusions, anxieties, and impulse purchases, of addiction and irrational attachment to ... objects.

As a young kid, I had no idea. It wasn't until my friend Shannon from the sixth grade mentioned the funny smell in our house. After that, I didn't invite new friends over. I began comparing our homes. Why could I walk from one end of someone's kitchen to the other without having to follow the 'path' between walls of plastic bags? Why was there SO much space on their counters? Why did they not have to empty the microwave of clutter each time they wanted to heat some food?

I would have my high school boyfriend wait in his car whenever he came to pick me up. We never invited him in. If my friends wanted to hang, we always met at the mall or at their homes. They never asked about this, but I'm sure they wondered.

Mom's living room was a sierra of newspapers. Her bed was half walled off by piles of her clothes. Every time I tried to throw things out of my own room, she flipped out.

So, I alienated her. This was a challenge because of her lack of self-awareness. Thank God for the internet. I threw myself into it, and dove deep into HTML coding, chatrooms, multiplayer online games, and more. I became a typical teenager and completely closed out "the mom". I weaponized indifference and felt completely justified. She and her house were suffocating, and I retreated inward to survive.

There is something odd about living in smothering circumstances over which you have no control. Every day, my anger simmered and deepened. It got to the point where I was just trying to keep afloat of her crap and my rage. To this day, I experience doorbell dread.

Miraculously, my survival did not kill our relationship. Our relationship improved once I no longer lived with her. Some children of hoarders have it way worse. Sometimes, there is physical abuse or animals involved. Sometimes the mental illness behind the hoarding is more vicious. Sometimes 'blood is thicker than water' doesn't mean squat.

My mother still has her demons, and she will never get the help she needs. But our relationship survives. Growing up in my situation made me a codependent person. There came a point in my life when I had to set boundaries with her, and that was excruciating but necessary. As a mother and a person with anxieties, I'm sure it was hard for her to stand down. But the day I moved out was the first step.

It was the first day I felt like I could breathe.

“Miss Rachko was your grandmother?”

The eighty-five year old man before me seems confused. His grandson hovers after pouring the green tea.

“Yes,” I lie.

“I am so sorry for your loss.”

Suddenly, I am overly-conscious of etiquette. Am I supposed to wait for him to drink first? This is a home visit, not a tea ceremony. Does it matter?

“How did you find my grandfather?”

The grandson is uncomfortable. My presence here is an intrusion, I understand that. The old man’s state is as delicate as my great-aunt’s. But I have questions. I can’t leave yet.

“She gave me your name a long time ago… there were some things about her I’d like to know, things I can’t ask her now. I think talking to you will help me.”

Nishiyama Kazuo finally sips his tea. I follow as gracefully as possible. The grandson makes a sound between his teeth before he excuses himself to make a phone call.

“Gertie-chan.” Kazuo smiles. For a moment, I’m afraid he’s confused me with my great-aunt. But then he adds, “That’s what I used to call her. Never aloud, of course. We only corresponded… through the letters.”

“Yes… I understand you wrote back and forth for three years.”

His gaze falls toward his tea. “She had to stop writing. A brother-in-law disapproved.”

I shift uncomfortably in my chair, watching the steam curl up from my tea. The brother-in-law was my grandfather who had served in the Pacific during the war.

“Yes. Those were different times. I know she regretted it though.”

“Oho! She couldn’t. Not if she ended up with a bright granddaughter. Your Japanese is very good!”

I humbly brush off the compliment. My Japanese is terrible.

Kazuo’s eyes glaze over for just a moment. He leans back in his chair and scrutinizes me.

“You said you’re Miss Rachko’s granddaughter?”

I nod.

“Ah, that’s right. What questions did you have?”

“Well, firstly… what was she like? In the letters… was she happy?”

“Hmmm! Happy? I hope so! She talked a lot about her studies and her family. She wanted to go to nursing school. I don’t know if she ever did.”

“Oh… no, she didn’t.”

“Is that so? That's too bad, too bad. She had a good mind!”

“Did you ever… talk about the war?”

“Hmm! Yes, but just when she wrote about that brother-in-law.”

“She wanted to come here, I think. To meet you.”

Kazuo’s face looks fifty years younger when he replies. “Yes, I asked her to. I wanted to marry her. Such a long time ago...”

“But… well, everything turned out well. You ended up with a loving grandson, anyway.”

The old man nods, suddenly fixated on my teacup. When he looks up, I know I’ll have to backtrack.

“Who are you again?” he asks.