“I’ll be fine, Mom. I’m good.” I puff out my chest. “Totally. Great, even.”

I learned a long time ago, right around the time Dad dropped off divorce papers to Mom’s job and moved a few towns away and started dating a woman whose government name is Krissy(!), that sometimes it’s best to pretend to be okay around Mom. It makes it easier on her.

“I’m sorry your father flaked.” Mom sounds more upset than I am. “I was sure he’d be here to help and see you off.”

“You’re surprised? Par for the course. Which is probably where he is today: golfing.”

She shakes her head, avoiding Taylor’s disenchanted gaze. “Call me every day?”

“Mom!” Taylor snaps. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Okay, every other day!” Mom cries. “I just want to make sure my firstborn baby is alive.” She grabs my chin. “Every other day?” But it’s not a question.

“Every other day,” I repeat.

“And please eat, b-but …” Her words teeter on the edge of her tongue. She struggles to hold it back, her eyelids twitching. We’re so close I can practically hear her thoughts: “But please don’t overeat, and if you feel the urge to, don’t. Call me. Or seek out a therapist on campus. You’re gonna do that, right?” Last week, I overheard her talking to Taylor, saying, “Chase needs to make sure to watch for the freshman fifteen. It’s real. It was on 20/20. I saw what it did to Marcy’s son Jamie, and let’s just say I think she’s mispronouncing fifty.” As great as Mom is, she’s often the proverbial verbal bull in a china shop when it comes to saying the absolute worst things without realizing they can cause me utter devastation. She means well, and I always forgive her because she knows not what she does. Thankfully, she’s exercising some restraint today.

Mom shakes it off, then leans in close so Taylor can’t hear. “Please make sure you wear protection when you have sex. I left a box of condoms under your pillow—I didn’t know your size, so I guessed a sensible average—and I also got you some lubricant because they told me at Planned Parenthood that for, you know, it’s not naturally …” She motions with her hands and finally says, “Wet.”

Ohmygod, how do I make it stop?

My shoulders tense, my mouth slacks, my entire body goes into multisystem organ failure. Within seconds, I am deceased—new record for Mom.

She plants a big kiss on my cheek that smacks. “I love you. Be safe. Call your sister.”

“She’s right there.” I point to Taylor, who doesn’t hesitate to run back over and fling her arms around me.

“I’ll miss you,” she says. “But only because you’re the only person who still plays Barbies with me.”

Right. All her friends are way too cool for that “baby shit.” But honestly, there’s nothing more therapeutic than a good old-fashioned hair-styling sesh followed by a fashion show set to a super gay mash-up of Dua Lipa’s “New Rules” and “Prince Ali” from Aladdin that I made on GarageBand.