We made our way up the three flights of stairs to the filthy apartment we called home on River Street. It was 1992 and I was eleven years old. My three siblings were younger, but not by a lot. We were all children, I just happened to be the oldest. We piled into the kitchen, throwing our backpacks and books and coats onto the cracked and stained linoleum, yelling for our mother. She wasn’t home, but none of us were really concerned because that wasn’t exactly out of the norm. After about a half an hour of unsuccessfully rummaging around in the cupboards for snacks, talking amongst ourselves, and attending to our own needs, I decided that we needed to do something. Mom was…