Fortunately and unfortunately, I happen to care whether or not my son is going to be a father at seventeen. I care whether or not my mother is going to be happy living in her new condo, alone, without Daddy there to irk her, but with her new teeth, driving her new car. I know that’s not going to be enough. Even though I’m pissed at Daddy for what he’s done and how he left, I’m worried about him, too. I’m worried that this young chick is using him, and what’ll happen when she’s through with him. I don’t want to see him hurt either. Don’t want to see him kicked to the curb. He doesn’t deserve that. Not at his age. He’s worked too hard for too long. All of us know that Mama shut him out a long time ago. We all saw it. But what can you do to fix your parents’ lives when yours isn’t perfect?

I’m lonely. I admit it. But it’s not something you want to go around broadcasting—don’t want to share it with the world—especially your family-world. It’s embarrassing, really, to be lonely. It makes you feel inadequate in some way. Like you don’t measure up in this area of your life. It doesn’t even seem to matter that I’m successful, because I feel like a failure as a woman, and I hate feeling like this. I know it doesn’t make any sense, and I’ve tried to trick myself into believing that it’s okay to be lonely, that it’s not the end of the world, that I’ll survive, but it still makes me feel like I’m lacking in something. Missing out on what other people have. In some ways, it even seems like a form of punishment, except I can’t figure out what crimes I’ve committed.

This is just one more reason on the list I can think of as to why I’ve been taking so many of these stupid pills. They’re no panacea, I know that, but they have helped me not think about how long it’s been since I’ve been kissed and held. They help me forget all about passion. I honestly wish that my son’s love was enough to sustain me. Wish my work was enough, but obviously they’re not. And until I can come up with better, smarter solutions, this is just a temporary thing.

“Hi, Ma,” Dingus says, coming through the door with the mail. He bends over and kisses me on the cheek and drops the pile on the kitchen island, then lets his backpack crash to the floor. He goes through each envelope, magazine, and catalogue and pulls out what apparently are eight or nine more letters from colleges. I think he’s up to about eighty of them now. He keeps them in shoe boxes under his bed.

“Hi,” I say, not budging from the stool I’m still swiveling on.

As usual, he opens the refrigerator to see what he doesn’t want, closes it, then changes his mind and grabs the gallon carton of orange juice and goes into the pantry to find a bag of cookies or chips—it doesn’t matter—and comes out and heads toward the hallway. But before he reaches the doorway, I say, “Hold it!”