For much of our life together， my mother and I hated each other. The way I saw it， I spent most of my childhood fighting with her—or trying to get away from her bitterness， her unhappiness and her endless smoking. As a teenager， I learned how to defend myself with words that were designed to hurt and could never be taken back. In return， she vowed that one day I would have a daughter who would feel the way about me that I felt about her.