That was a very dark time in my life, and it was then, after that incident, I went to art school. A fresh start. A place where I was good at something, and accepted because of it. And bonus, no swimming pool in sight! But now I’d moved to Cape Town, and this whole place was a damn giant swimming pool. I got up off my bed and pulled my curtains shut; maybe the sea wasn’t as beautiful as I thought after all. I sat back down on my bed and opened my laptop. I went to YouTube and typed the words succulent propagation into the search bar. The screen filled with videos and I watched them, getting caught up in the strange and magical world where broken bits and pieces grew new arms and legs. Their shapes and colors intrigued me too—there was something about them that made them different; they were the antiplants. Unlike pretty, sweet-smelling roses or lilies or all those other plants you see in floral arrangements, these guys were badass somehow. From blacks and grays to almost neon greens. Spikes and thorns and pointy bits, or soft, plump cushions. A collage of textures and colors that seemed so out of this world that they were almost alien. I was so drawn in that I almost choked on my Coke Zero when the ad came on. Because there she was. My mom. Emerging from behind a massive palm tree on our patio, wearing a leopard print jumpsuit.

“Hi, I’m Barbara Palmer, of Palm Luxury Realty, and I’m here to tell you that finding your dream house is easier than you think.”

She raised a pair of binoculars to her eyes and then looked around. Her acting was so bad that I wanted to melt into my bed. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. She lowered the binoculars with an unnatural jolt and then stepped through the palm leaves, dramatically swooshing her hands around, as if she was walking through a dense jungle.

“Oh no.” I raised my hands to my face; they hovered just below my eyes, as if they wanted to stop me from seeing this train wreck. But I couldn’t look away.

“At Palm Luxury Realty, we pride ourselves on matching people with their perfect homes.”

She turned dramatically and put her hands on her hips; her huge hair bounced and pooled around her shoulders, as if it was alive.

“Whether it’s a trendy penthouse in the heart of the city, a mansion on the plush lawns of Bishopscourt, or a seaside villa in Clifton . . . like this!”

I jerked back as she shouted that part and swung her arms in the air. The camera raced up into the sky until it was looking down on our house.