My mother is standing very still, watching me with an expression I can’t read. Without realizing it, I’ve started crying, and I furiously swipe the tears away. My mother puts her arm on my shoulder. “I’m always proud of you, Milla,” she says.

“Then why don’t you ever say it?” I shout, shaking her off.

“Because you shouldn’t need to please me or anyone else in order to feel proud of yourself! If all you care about are people validating you all the time, you’ll never have the confidence to really make something of yourself.”

“Like you?” I say, thinking about all her certificates and awards piled up in the spare room. “Well, before you had us anyway.”

As if I’ve touched a bruise, she takes a step back. But then she comes forward and takes my hand again. I let my hand hang limp, but I don’t grab it away this time.

“I’m incredibly proud to be raising such amazing kids. You don’t have to do anything special to make me proud of you, Milla. And no matter what, I love you.”

I swallow.

“But—” she says, and takes a deep breath. “Well, you’re right. I’m realizing that I do resent how certain things turned out—or didn’t turn out.” I stiffen and try to pull my hand away, but she holds on tightly. “I thought I could have it all, Milla: a big career and a big family. And I had the big career.” She shrugs. “But, well, four or five children—that’s not what God had in store for me.” She pauses to take another breath, and her eyes are glistening. She means the cityscape of needles in her bathroom, Max born so premature, not being able to have more babies. I feel my own eyes fill again. But this time not with rage.

“But I do have a big family. I have you and Max,” my mother says.

I try to stop them, but the tears release from my eyes.

My mother’s eyes are closed now. “Milla, I don’t resent you or think of you as a—a burden. I love doing things for you, Milla—and I hate that you don’t know that. That I haven’t told you that enough.” She opens her eyes and fingers my hand, rubbing my knuckles. A tear is running down her cheek too.

“But—it’s just hard to be the person in the family that’s always doing things for people without those people saying thank you, or even just acknowledging the work and time that goes into it.”

I stiffen again and swipe my cheeks roughly with the back of my hand.

Just when I thought we understood each other, she says something that shows how she still doesn’t see my side. I heave air out of my nostrils.

I am about to say, “Mom, but I do say thank you. It’s just that it’s always your way or the highway.” But I hesitate. It feels like we are going in circles. Her nose is dripping, and she is crying really hard now. She definitely doesn’t look like she thinks she’s so perfect.