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One summer, when I was 12, I started
crying. I can’t remember why, and I’m a
crybaby, so it could have been any number of
reasons. My mother doesn’t like the sound of
my crying.

My mother stormed out of the house as I
sobbed, in the dark, on the living room floor.
When she returned after what felt like hours—
but was likely around fifteen minutes—she
brought me a milkshake.

When I was 16, I walked in on my mother
snorting Ritalin. She was sitting at the island
of the kitchen, small straw, razor blade, and
line of powder laid out before her.

“Um, Mommy?” I asked. By now, I knew
about the cocaine, but I also knew she had
quit after grandma’s passing—or at least,
that’s what she told me.

“Huh? Oh, hi, baby doll! This is my Ritalin
prescription,” she explained. She did have the
prescription bottle right there, Ritalin
prescribed to her name, so I figured she wasn’t
lying. “It’s faster this way,” she went on, “and
if I take it normally, it upsets my stomach.”

I’m chronically shy. Meeting new people is a
frightening task, and my mom is the exact
opposite. She loves making conversation with
strangers, whether they are sharing the
elevator or the sidewalk with her. This habit of
hers always embarrassed me, and I could

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