She’d told me I was exhausting her, only . . . I didn’t know how to not be exhausting. I was only six, after all. Which meant that, in my mind, the only really “obvious” fact was that I wasn’t worth answering. That understanding me was a bother. Connecting with me was unnecessary. A nuisance. Draining. Which meant that I, too, was unnecessary and a nuisance and draining.
