For a year or so, part of fifteen and part of sixteen, you would sometimes have crying jags so violent they made you throw up. Maura is on her knees on your bathroom floor. You’ve got an awkward fistful of her ponytail, strands of hair still falling ragged into her face, coated in bile. When she sobs, it convulses her body so badly that you can’t really tell when she’s gagging and when she’s not. You’re squatting with your own, smaller body seizing between your knees. “Jesus,” you hear yourself say. “Fuck.” The sounds she makes are like trying to drag a blunt knife through cloth. Ragged, tearing. There’s some puke on your sleeve. Take a deep breath. Resist the urge to bash her head forward into the toilet to make the sound stop. At least in the moments you want to hurt her you only want to hurt yourself. Say something comforting, in the silence between her hitching breaths. That’s what that silence is for. Come on, think of something comforting.

* * *

A week after your mother’s publication date, you’re on your eighth Maura. You’re pretty sure it’s your eighth. So, assuming one for every essay in the book, then at most you’ve got four Mauras left, right? You say that like you can safely assume anything, like you know how this works. You’re feeling soft on Maura eight. Or maybe you’re feeling guilty. Maybe there isn’t a difference. Do you think you’d make a good mother, Maura?

You take her to your favorite waffle place. Her favorite waffle place. You’ve outgrown your sweet tooth, but goddamn did you love those waffles. Your mother called a prohibition on them when you were fourteen, along with most sugars and fats. Your waistline was expanding, encroaching. You’ve always occupied too much space.

She gets a pecan streusel waffle, caramelized sugar crusted at its edges. What would you call this pleasure you feel at watching her dig in? Whatever the opposite of schadenfreude is. She’s got a little bit of whipped butter on the tip of her nose. A lot of the Mauras your mother sends you are sad, but not all of them are.

“Is this your daughter?” the waitress asks. Maura catches your eye over the lip of her orange juice glass. What a messy eater she is. You’d like to think you’d teach your daughter better manners than this. But then, your mother tried with you. Maura swigs back her orange juice, and then mouths, Old lady, in your direction.

* * *