13
CHEYENNE
I haven’t talked to my mother in the ten years since her custodial rights were revoked. She tried to shoehorn her way back into my life three years ago, sending me message after disjointed message after finding my college email address. She lost track of me once I graduated, but I have her current phone number.
I sit here in my nightie, bundled in bed, tears on my cheeks, and stare down at her number in the old message saved on my phone. I don’t know why I saved her emails. I don’t even know why I’m thinking of calling her.
“What the heck am I going to say to her anyway?” I mutter, drawing my hand back from the phone as if it were a mousetrap about to snap off my fingers. “Hi Mom, long time no talk. Are you sober enough to remember this for once?”
I laugh hysterically for
