At least once a day, I think about calling Drew. But I know that I need to lady up, be on my own. I’m glad Mae realized Ben was good for her. She needed to be less independent. She’s on this interconnectedness kick right now, and it’s kind of funny. She really does sound like Mom. But I need to know who I am on my own, without pills or boys. I just thought after five months I’d have some idea.

We get in our groups and everyone talks, but I don’t. My birthday gift to myself is not trying too much. For one day, I want to coast a little. I don’t feel like telling my sad stories, but I listen to everyone else’s. To the girl who fucked up last night and needed a fix so bad she stole the pain pills for her family’s dog, who has cancer, so she’s here, back at day one. To the boy who picked up a needle on Monday, then called his sponsor before he could stick it in his arm. To the insanely beautiful girl who looks like she could be in a J.Crew ad who tells us she just got out of rehab and she’s not sure if she can do this, stay clean.

When we’re done, I head toward the coffee. Pour myself a cup. J.Crew is right behind me.

“I like your hair,” she says.

After I chopped it all off, Aunt Nora cried, then took me to her hair place so they could fix it. I like it. I feel stronger, in a way. More exposed, but also like there’s less weighing me down. I think about how Mom wrote in that postcard how she chopped off all her hair, too. In Malaysia. So I guess we’d look even more the same, if she were here. Mae agrees that it would have been a good look on her.

“Thanks,” I say.

She holds out her hand. “Jaipriya.”

Her name brings back a memory, of Kirtan at Mom’s studio, all of us chanting the names of Hindu gods in candlelight, the musician playing the harmonium—Jaipriya—leading us through the night.

I take her hand. “Hannah.”

We drink our coffee. I want to tell her she can do this, but I don’t want to overstep. At meetings, it can get weird real quick when people decide to start, like, life-coaching you. So we just drink coffee and talk about everyone’s clothes and tats and wonder why all churches have this same weird, slightly musty smell, no matter the denomination.

“I hate Mother’s Day,” Jaipriya says, out of the blue.

“Me, too.” I glance at her. “Why do you hate it?”

“I have a daughter. But my sister’s raising her because … well. She’s only two. But she calls her Mom.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, soft.