The Paper Palace

by Miranda Cowley Heller

When Jack was born, I looked at the tiny baby in my arms, suckling, pig-perfect, kissed his eyelids and said, “I love you so much, and someday, no matter what I do, you will hate me. At least for a little while.” It’s a fact of life.

She thrives on confrontation. She doesn’t give a shit what other people think. She doesn’t need to be liked. Anna is a warrior. She would never, ever have allowed Conrad to get away with it.

My mother’s cure for all woes: “If you’re feeling depressed, organize your underwear drawer.”

In love with the realness of each other—with toilet plungers and morning breath and running to the bodega to get me Tampax, falling asleep to Letterman, yelping at wasabi.

“That woman is so unpleasant. Every time I see her I feel like shitting on her shoes,”