Can you call my mother? Can you lie to her? I would do it myself but she knows me inside out—she could have been a detective in another life, the way she used to catch my lies (sometimes still does) when I was younger. I hated it. I could never understand how she did it. I hated how she saw through me. I told her I scored an A+ but she did not buy it for one second. I told her I liked coming back home. I told her I was not jealous of my brother. I told her I will take care of her husband, my father, after she died—she did not believe me.

Can you call my mother? Can you lie to her? I cannot lie to her anymore. I am not an actor. She will catch the insincerity in my voice (I think!)—I am not supposed to miss her, I am thirty-three, I have a home, a mortgage, a dog, a husband, a vacuum cleaner, a PHD—I am not supposed to miss her.

Can you call my mother? Can you tell her I need her? She won’t believe me. I am not sure why. I do not understand where I went wrong? When I chose my own husband? When I chose my major? When I chose to live in sin? When I left her womb? When my brother was born? I sift though the sands of time wishing to upend everything, and to start from the beginning.

Can you call my mother? Can you tell her I need her?

But I don’t think she will believe you.