When I wanted comfort, I remembered a story my mom told me, about befriending a lobster when she was twelve. One day, her uncle boiled it and she cried and cried. The regret she had, she said, was naming it, because that’s what made the loss so painful. I figured, when I revealed myself, I’d promptly be boiled. But people would still have felt a moment of connection, my name nestled safely in their memory, the way my mom spoke so tenderly about a lobster.
