In this picture from the museum of my past, I am recovering from my breast augmentation in Jake’s white-sheeted bed, in his white-walled condo, posting images from the shoots he organized, counting on the sponsorships he promised.

In this picture, I feel powerful in proximity to his power. In this picture, I feel small. In this picture, I want my mother and am afraid to want her.

In this picture, I am barely healed, only one-week post op but out of bed, at the airport. I scan the ticket Jake bought me, board a plane that takes me away from him. On the seatback screen in front of me a miniaturized 747 ticks toward Texas, my mother, like a clock.

“She’s been trying to reach you about this,” Jake had said, Day One of my new, augmented life. “She says she hasn’t been able to get through.”

It felt like an accusation, exposure. I was a neglectful daughter, and wrong for pursuing my own surgery, the perfection of my body, when my mother was trying to tell me hers had failed. Absorbed in @annawrey, I hadn’t listened; I had ignored her calls. So it had been Jake who answered my phone, Jake she told about the pain in her gut, how it had worsened since I left. She’d gone for bloodwork, scans, all of which reported nothing. But she was certain they were wrong and had scheduled a surgery to find out why. An exploratory operation, invasive enough to necessitate my return, she promised. Though I wasn’t sure I should believe her.

Out the airplane window, the sun rose. I filmed its purple, orange, yellow. I opened the purple, orange, yellow Instagram square, shared, then thumbed around my Explore feed. Since surgery, I’d deep-dived on a few weightlifters’ boob job journeys, and now fitness content dominated my algorithm: videos of the squats, lunges, hip thrusts and protein calculations required to build six-pack abs and thick, lifted, 100 percent natty asses. But weights won’t build breasts. And itty-bitty titties won’t win body building belts. So, surgery was a necessary, personal choice to be shared, along with tips toward healing—eat clean and light and lots of protein, try not to stress about time off from the gym, sleep propped on pillows, drink extra water and try this electrolyte brand for added flavor, use code HYDRATE20 for 20 percent off—most of which, I followed.

The plane landed. I wheeled my suitcase, followed signs, other passengers. Into thick Texas heat, I emerged. I had acclimated to LA’s embalmed air, the wind leached dry and dangerous. But humidity, Houston, my every gland, pore, hair follicle opened to absorb them.