“Thanks, Mom, but I’m extremely relaxed. You’re the one who needs relaxing.” I grinned when I said this so she wouldn’t take it the wrong way, and accepted her offering. Like everyone else, I drew pictures when I was little. Unlike everyone else, I kept it up till the end of middle school. Kids used to put in orders for me to make them drawings, from a photograph, say of their dog or their sister, or a scene from The Simpsons. By high school I mainly did what I had to do to stay in favor with the art teacher, Mr. Yam. “What would I draw, anyway?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said my mother. “You could draw what you see out the window. Your clothes hanging in the closet. Or in your case, thrown on the floor.”

“Ha! Look who’s talking.”

“More interesting to draw if they’re thrown on the floor.” She kept standing there. “Are you okay, Maddy? Do you need anything? Just say.”

“I’m fine, Mom.” I put down the sketchbook and held out my hands. “Do you like my nails?”

“Love the colors!” she said a little too quickly. “Love the spots!”

I could see she was having a not-so-great day.

“Can I do your nails, Mama?” From the corner of my eye I saw my mouth talking in the mirror, as if it had started leading a life of its own. “Puleeese . . . ?” I said this in my Tweetie-Pie voice, knowing that although my mother is a sucker for my Tweetie-Pie voice, she was still going to say no. She always says no. She won’t even wear subtle shades of lipstick.

“No offense, Mom, but the way you look at the moment? Believe me, nail polish would help!” She laughed, so I thought it was safe to follow this up with: “You should listen to the younger generation. Let us show you the way.”

Since I’ve been sick, my mother gets this look as though someone is forcing her to stare into a light that’s way too bright. I should have known better. Teasing strikes her as cute, and cute means sad, and sad brings on the look, which I was in no mood for today.

“I know it’s me doing this to you, Mom! Do you think I want to do this to you?” There. I’d said it out loud, though not necessarily in the right tone.

We stared at each other.

I could also say: I’m the kid around here!

I could also say: Well, you’re the one who made me! But that would be mean, because what’s happened is no more her fault than it is mine. Grandpa’s always telling me that.