Her plan, once I’ve changed into something that can’t be used for a Daily Mail pun, is pretty straightforward. We take the class, and then when the paparazzi surround us upon exit, my mother will repeat these exact words, which she practiced more than her People’s Choice Awards acceptance speech: Unfortunately, I’m unable to discuss the details of the case at this time, but I’m so grateful for the outpouring of support for me and my family that has come from not only all over the country but all over the world. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Then she’s supposed to follow with a wink and her trademarked Missy line: You’re the bestest!

My job is to stand next to her in a solid color and not throw up.

There has been no outpouring of support. As far as I can tell, very few people have reached out, with the notable exception of Raj, my mother’s personal trainer, who kindly passed along exercises to relieve her overworked adrenals. Even Aunt Candy has gone radio silent after her big claim that she had no idea about Dr. Wilson’s scheme, and instead used him for only legitimate consulting services. Right.

Occasionally, during our middle-of-the-night crossings, my mom’ll murmur: “You’d think she’d at least check in on me. When she discovered that Charles had that mistress in Tokyo, I was on the first flight out.”

I understand how my mom feels. I may not have coached Shola through an extramarital affair, but we have been through whatever the high school equivalent might be. This is the longest I’ve gone not speaking to her since we met, and often, still, I catch myself talking to her in my mind.

“Please don’t hate me,” I find myself saying, on repeat, as if Shola can hear me. If I believed in vision boards, I’d put a selfie of us smack in the middle and write the word BFF in bubble letters.

The only person I’ve heard from is Cesar’s mom, who a week ago, out of the blue, texted me a picture of Cesar hanging upside down in the park, knees looped over a tree branch. Her message was brief: Sorry about your troubles. Cesar says to send this. Hope you come back soon. I have reread that text a hundred times, run my fingers along the words like they’re rosary beads.

So much unearned empathy in those three lines; they make me swim in painful gratitude.

—

At first Paloma’s plan goes off without a hitch. When we walk in, a few people titter, but mostly they do that LA thing of recognizing my mom and then intentionally looking away. I imagine later they will call their friends and be like, Oh my God, you will never guess who I just saw.