My mother is the weather. As a child, I was the core target to which she would unleash her hailstorms and earthquakes that tore me down and broke me into pieces. Quite literally, she broke my arm when I was merely five, just hours after I returned home from school. The memory, still etched in my mind despite its minor nuances since I reflected upon it one too many times, starts when I step foot into the house on that chilly, November evening. 🍓 Запрещённое в соцсетях искусство — t.me/kartiny/6166 My mother…