After a week at Mom's in New Jersey, I've learned… jack s**t, really. Mom isn't a great source of information about my life, it seems. Her idea of therapy wasn't a heartfelt dialogue over steaming cups of cocoa or reminiscing through old photo albums. Instead, she dragged me through the garden center, as we scrutinized begonias, her critical gaze landing on my worn-out jeans more often than not.
My bank statements were more forthcoming. They told me I now have a subscription to an ethical, female-focused p**n site and my odd fixation with a single movie I had streamed a staggering seventeen times.
The entire ride from New Jersey, I've been grilling the girls on the gaping black hole of my lost year. Every time I ask something, there's a thirty-second delay, like they're worried my brain
