Mom leans back in her chair. “It wasn’t so bad, was it? You were growing up so well.” “It was torture! You know what I was doing when Dreadnought—when that supervillain attacked me?” I don’t believe it. It’s like she’s willfully misunderstanding it. They never take my word for it; why can’t they take my word for it? “I was painting my toenails behind the mall because that’s the only way I could keep sane. Does that seem normal to you, Mom? Does that seem healthy?” “I just…I don’t see you as a girl,” she says. “Even now, even looking like that. You were going to be such a fine young—” “I was
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