My mother’s house has paths instead of rooms

Dear Delyara, My mother is a hoarder. I arrived today after the fire department warned that emergency crews could not enter safely. The house where I grew up now contains narrow paths between newspapers, broken appliances, plastic containers, unopened packages, and bags tied shut years ago. Every object has a reason. This box belonged to Grandma. Those jars may be useful. That chair can be repaired. When I picked up a stack of magazines, Mother screamed as though I had grabbed her body. I am forty-four and became twelve again immediately—ashamed of the smell, angry at the neighbors, protective of her, desperate to escape. In my old bedroom, the bed is buried beneath clothes. On the wall, one corner of a poster I hung as a teenager is still visible. I wanted to uncover it. Mother would not let me move the bags. Tonight, I am sleeping in a motel while she remains inside the house because she refused to leave. The fire department says the building is dangerous. My mother says the danger is people taking what belongs to her. I no longer know whether the house contains her possessions or whether the possessions have slowly built a house around the place where my mother used to be.