“So I refused to consider the possibility of a guilty plea. Even if it was the right thing to do, it felt like the wrong thing, you know? But we had a family emergency recently, and I guess it was a wake-up call for me. As parents, we realize that no matter how hard we try, no matter how fiercely we love our children, we’re going to screw it all up somehow. I have the distinct pleasure of knowing, at least in one way, exactly where I went wrong. It turns out my job as a mom is not to shield my children from the hard things, because life is life, and as much as it hurts me to see their disappointments, as much as I’d like to shield them from all the struggles I went through, I can’t do that. Instead, I realized I need to start modeling courage and strength. By pleading guilty, I hope to show them that I believe in taking responsibility for my mistakes. And eventually I hope to earn their forgiveness.”

She’s fully crying, wet tears leaving tracks of mascara down her face, an image that I already know will transform her again from a human being into a meme. My mom has been doing this long enough that she knows it too—and not only because Paloma is obviously freaking out behind the cameraman.

“I know I’ve also let down my fans, and I hope to one day earn back their trust.”

I have no idea how this apology will go over, though my guess is not well. I can’t parse it in the ways Twitter will soon—I can’t break it down piece by piece, dissect all the privilege baked into each sentence, whether she’ll move from public enemy number one to laughingstock. It doesn’t matter, though. I’m pretty sure my mother is beyond caring.

“Also, while I’m here telling the whole truth, you should know I’m fifty years old. Half a freaking century. The Internet says I’m forty-five. That’s a lie.”

I hear Paloma audibly gasp: No! Isla lets out a puff of air, a laugh-cry, and we are squeezing each other’s hands so tightly it hurts.

“Until recently, I hadn’t eaten a carb in something like fifteen years, and I get Botox and Restylane and I had cheek implants, because you can’t be skinny and have cheeks. You can’t. I think that’s it. This is going to sound absurd, but I also don’t sweat because my dermatologist took care of that, and so when I sleep, which is pretty much never, I have nightmares I’ll be telling the truth but no one will believe me because I’m not sweating. Ironic, right?”

Brittany Brady stares at her, dumbfounded. My mom keeps going. She is having a full meltdown on live television.