Abstract
A 15-year-old working-class girl dropped her suitcase at the door of a home for unwed mothers. It was August 20, 1951, a drizzly Monday morning in Pittsburgh. The girl, Mary Catherine Vaughan (“Honey” to family and friends), stood with her shamed and disappointed parents for a moment. She was “in trouble.” The bell was rung, and a caseworker opened the door. Honey jumped at the click, picked up her suitcase, and followed her parents into the building where she was to be “rehomed” until the result of her condition could be permanently settled. An hour later, knowing she would never see her boyfriend again, she was very much alone. Except for me. I was with her. She was my mother.
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