My name is Ethan Miller, and I grew up in a small town outside Cleveland, Ohio, where everyone knows everyone—and where labels stick harder than truth.
For as long as I can remember, my life smelled like diesel fuel, disinfectant, and the inside of a garbage truck.
That smell came from my mom.
Before I was born, she was a nursing student with a bright future and a husband who worked construction. They had plans—buying a house, saving for vacations, talking about the kind of parents they wanted to be.
