Dad shakes his head. “Jamie, you’re not thinking about the logistics. I understand that hearing this now, you’re thinking I’m a horrible person who stole you away, but I was just trying to find the path of least resistance for us to all be happy. You wanted to come with me.”

A loose tear escapes my eye. I shoot out a finger to punch the stereo back on and stare out the window the rest of the ride.

76. A Girl Is Running on Fumes

JAMIE

September 8, Tuesday

New Jersey

I haven’t slept. I went from yesterday straight to today. Dawn and I talked for two hours last night before she had to go. We didn’t get to sift through everything to the extent I wanted. We barely got into her week. It really blows not living in the same state.

I’m at the airport. I don’t know what it is about airports. They’re full of people, but they’re so lonely. And creatively stimulating. Something about the monotony of it all puts me in the zone. I want to write. I need to. Time to get Plan Parent Confrontation Trap–related words on paper.

I’m lonely.

Not something I saw coming when I planned this switcheroo revenge-parent-confrontation extravaganza. During every non-Zarar moment these past four days, I have felt extremely isolated.

My visit with the Jafris yesterday was so … delightful. But afterward I felt more alone than before. They’re proof that so many of the relationship beliefs and bottom lines I’ve held to be truth are in fact conjecture. That functional families are not a mirage to be sought after and never attained. They’re attainable. They’re real.

And I am not part of one in any way, shape, or form. Every aspect of my family life is a dumpster fire that I can’t even begin to figure out how to douse because I’m a steaming pile of shit myself.

I have ten pages full of thoughts and musings from the past week and a half down by the time my plane boards.

Once I’m boarded, I study what I have and start to extract the highlights. The bits that relate to other aspects of daily life. The bits that can be juxtaposed against your everyday functional family. The bits that are so outlandish, I can’t believe they actually happened. I organize them into columns and start rewriting.

The flight passes in a blur of seat belt announcements and flight attendants trying to give me drinks. When we touch down, I’m staring at the first draft of a new ten- to fifteen-minute set.

I hope I can get my shit together to perform it. I pull out the iPhone.

Me: Landed, ETA 30 minutes to hotel

Siri: We’re at MGM, got keys to room 507. Dad is off to the casino for a bit. I told him to meet me in the room at 4