I follow him across the brownish grass into my apartment. After having been outside, I’m hit with the smell as I enter: champagne and stale cigarettes and Ralph by Ralph and incense. Ash dropped on the carpet. I see a look of disgust on Bo’s face. I can tell he’s judging my apartment, even though his is even more of a dump. But I’m his mom. I’m supposed to be aspirational. I know I’m not. The sink is overflowing with dirty dishes. My teal duvet is twisted and unmade. The painting of ocean waves beside my window is crooked. He looks at the Bob Marley quote—”Love the life you live. Live the life you love.”—painted in curly blue letters in my kitchen, then my name painted in Chinese letters above the TV.

His face falls. I know what he’s thinking. My mom is forty-eight years old and living in a dorm room.

He sits down on the couch and sinks into the cushions.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask. “A mimosa?” I’m already starting to pour more Cook’s into my own glass.

When I walk over to hand him my glass, he’s looking at the bookshelf beside my TV, which is filled with framed photos of sunsets and palm trees and Steph and Bo as a little boy. I notice a photo of Bo hugging my leg, the biggest smile on his face, unaware that his mom is an alcoholic and a liar who eventually will be diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, nothing to teach him and no money to offer him.

Ignorance is bliss.

“You were so cute,” I say.

He turns around and looks at me with a heavy expression. I notice for the first time that he might be hungover too. There are dark circles under his eyes and his face is pale. I feel like I’m looking in a mirror, and not in the normal fun way.

“Looks like I’m out of orange juice,” I say as I hand him his cup of champagne.

He takes a big gulp. “Why did you lie to me about my dad?”

I sit beside him on the couch and take a big gulp, mirroring him.

“Aww, Bo.” I start rubbing his hair like I did when he was a little boy. He squirms away, and I feel that tightening in my chest, the one I get when I feel someone is leaving me. My court-appointed therapist told me to watch for this feeling and to take deep, soothing breaths when it arrives. But I’ve never been great at it. Once it hits, it all feels out of my control.

“Why did you lie?”