We left the sheriff’s office and had to wake up Mayhem and Taco where they snoozed by the bike rack out front. As we walked home, I ran through my thoughts out loud. I had always been a verbal processor, and so things really only became clear to me when I talked through them. It was a habit both of my parents, who believed firmly that personal problems needed to remain so private that they weren’t even shared with family, despised. Mom would pick me up after school and ask how my day was, but when I began to tell her about the girl on the playground who had told me to “mind my own beeswax” when I’d asked what she was doing or some such thing, Mom would say, “Now, dear, we don’t need to relive all the hard moments do we? What would you like for dinner?” And just like that, the conversation
