The wind brought with it the memoir, wrapped up all nice and fancy with tiny love-me-nots in bloom. A very tenuous grasp on reality from the person whose reality is based on fantasy. Can we trust her?
Several chapters to the story, beginning with an innocence-tinged laugh that belied even the child herself. Bouts of alcohol rage and running with scissors stuff. Parents limiting their exposure to her from Day 1.
Hysteria? Hyperbole? The problem with a memoir is that we never know the ending, real or not. It just drifts off. No conclusion, no final assessment, no lasting revelation or hope or despair. Death takes care of the epilogue.