“So I’ve been a terrible mother,” said my mother. “I guess I’ve done nothing right.” I could feel her opening an emotional spreadsheet that began with the womb. This was why I never confronted her. Now we’d have to go traipsing through it together, cell by cell, until I retracted everything. But what if I just refused to traipse? “I can’t,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.” I closed the spreadsheet.
