wore S’s musty, oversized T-shirts so that I could feel swallowed up by him, surrounded by him, but they only reminded me of my loneliness. S would text or call, but I didn’t want to hear about his day or what was going on with his work. I’d end our calls bitterly, immediately regretting the tension I’d created between us. It didn’t occur to me that what I wanted from S was the same thing that my mother craved from me: to have someone live in her pain with her.
