I try to think: What would Honey do in this situation? In my head, I see her body jut forward to stand up for herself. But—I also know how much Honey cares about her family. And respects them. I’ve never even really heard her argue with her mother. And I think, as I have so many times, about what she said about my mother. And about what Aginéni said about her mother.

And then I think, This isn’t about Honey. It is about ME. And not about me in a selfish way, but in the kind of way that this is about me and my mother and not anybody else and their mother. And then I think that maybe my mother has some other things she needs to deal with that are actually about her, and not really about me and her.

I let out a softer sigh of air.

I do know that she loves me. And that when she tries to tell me what to do, it’s probably not just that she thinks she’s always right, but it’s to protect me from one thing or another—especially pain. Even if I do need to go through some of these things to grow up and become myself. Even if I don’t even really know exactly who that is yet.

And maybe … well … maybe I haven’t acted as grateful as I could be for the things my mom does for me, or for what I have.

I bend my body forward so I can put my arms around my mother and I lean into her. Her trench coat feels funny against my cheek, but she holds me tightly and I hug her tightly back. We stay like that for a while.

“Oy, Milla, you’re freezing,” she says finally, rubbing my arms and then letting go to start taking off her trench coat. “Here, take my coat.”

“No thanks,” I say. “No offense.”

She rolls her eyes. “None taken,” she says with a rueful grin.

My mom and I walk along the path to our street. Just as we are coming up our driveway, she gives me a careful look.

“Milla, I know you often compare yourself to Honey, and that she’s your matrix—” She pauses, looking like she wants to say more about that, but then shakes her head and puts her hands on my shoulders.

“Milla, I hope you know how happy I am that you are my daughter.”

I think my mom means that for a long time I looked to Honey to design and build the house I wanted to live in. But instead of insisting that I try not to do that anymore, or that I offer plenty of creative input myself, I just blink. “Thanks, Mom,” I say simply, suddenly realizing how much I needed to hear that. That I’m me: not Honey, or anybody else. And even though I know it’s cheesy, I put my hands on her shoulders and say, “Mom, I hope you know I’m happy that you’re my mother.”