reading the short story written by my older sister

I married my mother. Its such a fucking cliche...Like my dead husband, in the short story my mother used to bang her head against the wall. Reading this part of the story is so visceral I start to cry. I remember sitting on my bed above his office in the weeks leading up to his suicide. I hear him banging his head against his desk and I am not a 55 year old woman anymore but a child. A child who needs her mother, but her mother is depressed and selfish. Just like my dead husband.