You stood in the doorway shouting at me about health risks and self-worth, which I rebuffed with quiet ambivalence until you covered your face with both your hands. Were you crying? No. You were steeling yourself. You began to speak again, at first into your hands, then gradually lowering them. “You’re a gleaner, Jord. A dilettante. You have no degree, no career, no steady source of income, no idea what you want to do with your life, you drift around with your friends — no offence, Ana — with no real purpose, and like a magpie you just ooooh pick up shiny things you read and see here and there. You spout half-digested philosophy and carry yourself around like some know-it-all because really you’re so painfully insecure, so painfully afraid people will see through your act and see what? What’re you hiding? Hmm? What’re you afraid of? You’re smart, Jord. You have so much potential. Do something with it, for god’s sake, instead of fritting it away, I mean is that unfair? Am I being unfair?”

“Actually yes, fuck you very much and —”

“Oh, really —”

“— can I be honest?”

“Please.”

“Honestly? There’ve been so many times I’ve thought about how much easier things would be if you weren’t alive and that at least that way — yes, dead, Mom — because at least that way I’d have a bit of cash to pay for rent and go back to school without accruing any more fucking debt and your eternal fucking judgement, and I don’t know where you think you and your little purple rolling bag are going to stay tonight, but as you can clearly see there’s no room for you here.”

You were, of course, absolutely right.

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