This Is Where We Talk Things Out

by Caitlin Marceau

“You’re my mother, Sylvie, but you haven’t been my mom for years.”

the putrid scent getting stronger the closer she gets to her mother’s door.

Sylvie’s voice is a low mumble, like she’s talking in her sleep or whispering with friends. The words sound like they’re coming fast, but from Miller’s side of the door they’re inaudible.

This is what it was like growing up with her: every event, every memory, rewritten and retold to you enough times that you couldn’t help but wonder if the version you remembered was wrong.

not wanting to admit that she'd never cared about breakfast food; she'd just loved getting to spend time with her dad after he’d been gone for so long.

And, quite honestly, I think it says a lot about someone if they can’t love another person unconditionally unless that person’s their offspring. It’s narcissistic.”