“So much for you being able to help.” “Hey. I understand you’re angry, but—” “Angry? You think this is me being angry?” My sensibility goes out the window, along with any self-preservation. “My son barely wants to spend time with me anymore. Whenever I try—whether it’s reading a book together, watching a movie, or playing video games—he shuts down and pushes me away, and do you know who he asks for instead?” She fails to meet my eyes. “Me?” “Yes,” I hiss. “And how do you think that makes me feel?” I don’t bother to shield my loathing. I’m not sure who I’m more frustrated with—her or me—but
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