“They’ll get over it,” I say, and then before Isla can respond, my mom is ushered over to the couch, and the interviewer takes a seat across from her, and we are silenced by someone shouting “Live in ten,” and then the countdown begins.

I slip my hand into Isla’s as the cameras roll.

—

My mother looks small under the overhead lights, and she blinks a few times up at Brittany Brady, who seems taller because of her bigger hair. A swoosh of blond swings across her forehead like a wave.

“I imagine this isn’t easy for you,” Brittany says, with a faux-empathetic tilt of her head and an attempted knitting of brows, which doesn’t quite work, presumably because of injectables. “Just a few months ago you were gearing up to star in the My Dad, My Pops, and Me reboot, and now you’re facing multiple felony charges and a possible forty years in prison.”

My mom lets out a gurgle-cough. It was, of course, the mention of forty years. That gets me every time too.

“How does it feel?” Brittany asks.

“I actually…I have something I want to share. I know this is supposed to be an interview, and I’ll answer any questions you have, I promise, but I’d like to read this first if that’s okay?”

“Sure,” Brittany says, shooting a quick glance at her producer, who nods, like go with it. We are on live television, so I’m not sure Brittany has much of a choice anyway.

My mother takes out a piece of paper that she’s been sitting on and carefully unfolds it.

“I was going to speak without reading, but I’m…I’m too nervous,” my mom says, and my entire body thrums with the tension. I’ve watched my mother being interviewed hundreds of times throughout my life, and always, when in front of a camera, she transforms into the sparkliest, warmest version of herself, and every time there’s a cognitive dissonance and I think, Who is that?

Today, though, my mom seems her true self, unsure and tired and exposed. She might as well be wearing her Wood Valley sweats.

“First of all, I want to apologize to both of my daughters, neither of whom had anything to do with this. This is one hundred percent my fault, and I want to—need to—take full responsibility for my actions. I’m so sorry, girls.” My mom looks at Isla and me off to the side, not at Brittany or even at the cameras. This apology—at least this part of it—is for us and us only.

“Last fall, I made the biggest mistake of my life.” My mom sets her jaw and turns her attention back to the lens. “As a result, I will be pleading guilty to the charges against me.”