A young woman who used to be best friends with her mom now writes a letter because her mom will no longer talk to her, even by phone. Rachel B. lives on the streets of San Francisco and writes for YO! (Youth Outlook), a newspaper by and about young people produced by Pacific News Service.

Dear Mom,

I wonder sometimes if you miss me, even think about me?

All the time I wish I could see you and I wonder what went wrong. I remember holding your hand and our long walks every evening. You loved me and I was sure of that. I knew I was important to you.

Do you remember going to the movies -- how we'd pay once and sneak in to see a second film? Eating popcorn and sharing a Dr. Pepper, we were like best friends. I told you things I'd never tell my friends from school. Asked you questions I could never ask anyone else.

Maybe I trusted you too much when I told you the biggest secret I had. I wish sometimes I could take it all back and never have told you that I'm gay. I wish I could go back to the way things used to be.

I miss all the fun we had together. I miss doing laundry with you on Saturday mornings and making the beds and playing in piles of clean clothes before we folded them. I miss coming into your room and lying on your bed and watching you get dressed in the morning. I miss watching Star Trek and going to Chinatown and knowing that you cared about me.

As much as I miss those times, I wonder why you had to change. I grew up knowing you loved me and now I live with the knowledge that you hate me. But I can't go back. I just have to accept the fact that my mama -- who raised me and worked three part-time jobs to support me; who left a husband who hit her because she was afraid he might hurt me; who didn't get an abortion even though her boyfriend urged her to; who suffered so much for me -- that mother hates me because I'm gay.

You looked so scared and shocked when you found out. But I never wanted to hurt you, Mom. I think about you when I wake up. I picture your face in my mind and trace it with my fingers in the air. Sometimes, though, I can't remember what you look like, and that scares me.

Do you think about me? I grew three inches and my feet grew even more. I look a lot older. My hair grew out and it's not frizzy anymore, just wavy. Would you recognize me if you saw me?

No. If you walked by me all you'd see would be a dirty homeless girl with matted braids and smelly shoes and dirty clothes. If I asked you for spare change you'd just walk on by . Only if you stopped and looked in my eyes would you recognize me.

I hate you for hating me, but can't stop loving you. Why do you hate me for who I am? I'm not evil. Your face had so much hate in it when you told me to leave; I knew things would never be the same again.

God, I hope you change your mind some day. But I can't keep trying to call you. How many times can you try when nobody will ever accept the charges? Do you know how that makes me feel?

But I still miss you. And I wish that you missed me.