Now that I’m standing in front of her new apartment building’s elevator, I’m still not sure. I’ve got ona nice peach Ralph Lauren sweater, light blue jeans that are too tight on my belly after my two stress-gobbled raisin bran muffins, and a sleek hairstyle Mario chose that Mom will hardly recognize me in.
It’s been months since I’ve seen my mother. And the last time we saw each other …
I shake the thought out of my head. That wasn’t Mom. She told me herself—that was the sleeping pill.A zombie. That wasn’t my mother.
I stop and run through the story one more time in my head—I met a rich politician and fell in love andgot married. Yes, it’s crazy. Yes, I’m happy. Yes, I should’ve told her, should’ve invited her to thewedding. I’m sorry I didn’t.
I sag into a nearby sued
