I start typing You are not in love with me, you were, and I went away precisely BECAUSE I’m still in love with you. But it’s too clingy, too honest, so I delete it. Then I write, Some heartbreak it is. You are already parading other women all over town. But then I delete that one, too, on the grounds that I don’t want to sound like a stalker. Finally, I settle for generic.

Ever: Well, I’m always here if you need me.

I wait for another snarky comment, but all I get is a generic thumbs-up emoji.

That’s the last I hear from him for a while.

During the first week of August, I walk past the gates of a small cemetery in Half Moon Bay.

San Francisco banned burials on its grounds in 1900, on the basis that the city is dense as all hell. In what must be one of the most dazzling cases of irony known to mankind, the city of San Francisco deemed burials to be health hazards. Let that sink in for a moment.

Thus, we bury our loved ones around the city, not inside it.

Barbara “Barbie” Lawson loved Half Moon Bay. A town in the Bay Area that still maintains its wild coastal beauty. It is essentially a string of beaches bracketed by cliffs. Dad chose to bury her there because he thought she’d enjoy the view.

I go alone. It’s a weekday. Dad’s at work, and Renn’s at school taking summer classes. Even if they were available, I need to do this by myself.

I couldn’t bring myself to attend Mom’s funeral. I was too busy hurling my phone off a cliff and hating myself to pay her last respects. Also, I couldn’t deal with the stares of everyone who would be attending. They all knew how she died.

So here I am now.

It takes me twenty-five minutes to find her grave. Partly because I’m so nervous, but mostly because cemeteries are like that. Difficult to navigate. Her grave is a generic one. A single upright granite headstone with a matching vase. I lift a batch of flowers I brought along with me and tuck them into her vase.

“Hey, Mom. Sorry it took me a minute. Or . . . you know, six years.”

The silence is to be expected, but it still hurts. I don’t sit down. I don’t make myself comfortable.

“I know it’s been a long time, and I know I wasn’t here for your funeral . . . and yes, I know I was terrible to Renn and Dad. And Pippa too. I know all those things. So don’t think I don’t. It’s just that . . .” I blink at her grave, thinking, It’s been so long, but also I remember her like it was yesterday.