The truth was, the only reason I ever walked into that butterfly museum the first time was because I felt that sick, pressing weakness trying to carve me open and I needed to shut it down. My mother used to tell me that my father was with her all the time, and whenever she was having a rough day, she’d see him in the butterflies. So I went alone, looking for my dad, embarrassingly enough, because there was no one else to talk to—and I kept going back. I went back all the time. But that wasn’t the kind of deep life shit you opened up about to a girl you barely knew.
