Ego Death In The Living Room

“This looks just like 209!” And with those words, my pretense to adult independence came crashing down. My family often referred to my Chicago apartment just by the numbers in our address—Two-Oh-Nine. When I heard my childhood nanny, Caroline, utter this familiar numerical sequence in my “grown up” apartment in West Hollywood, I realized she was right: I had moved thousands of miles across the country just to end up in a recreation of the home I had supposedly left. …

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