There is no love as profound as that between a mother and child. A Fierce and Broken Love is my story as well as my mother's. She was a beautiful, kind, christian woman who suffered from Paranoid Schizophrenia. This is our story. I shivered as I huddled on the cold tile bathroom floor next to where Daddy had fallen. He had been shaving, as he did every morning, and I had been watching, as I did every morning. But our ritual had ended there for Daddy had crumpled forward over the sink and then slid down to the floor. I had laughed and giggled, at first, tickled by his antics, delighted by them really, but then I had climbed down from my spot on the counter to sit beside him. Now I sat next to his head, gazing into his face, gently rubbing my fingers through his hair, and dipping down occasionally to kiss him while carefully avoiding the white foam that still covered half of his face. From time to time, I murmured, "Shave, Daddy. Get up." But rather than rise and grab me in his arms singing and shouting, "All the way, all the time, Daddy's little girl," he lay hushed and unmoving.