Is that why he’s so skinny? I’d noticed how he ate all his school lunch, but he never looked full.

Hmmm, she’d said. Maybe we can do something to help.

I could bring him extra from my lunch! I’d been excited by the idea.

That’s perfect, sweet girl. You can take him as much as you’d like.

After that, I’d pack two lunches, one for me and one for Tate, always making sure to put in an extra cookie just for him. It stuck, and until we graduated high school, I always packed an extra lunch just for Tate. I’m warmed by the memory.

“Do you remember when you had to give Tate a buzz cut?”

Mom’s laugh smooths the lines from her skin, and for a moment she looks just like the woman I remembered from before the drinking. “Poor kid had dreads.” Her face darkens. “His father was such a mess.”

It’s a true statement, but it’s ridiculous coming from her, yet instead of feeling angry with her hypocrisy, I snort. “Pot, kettle, Mom?”

She looks at me, mouth hanging open. “I know. I can’t believe I just said that. I was a mess. Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, but whenever we rated you, his dad always came up worse.” I suck in my bottom lip. “At least, that’s what Tate thought. He said there was really no comparison. I disagreed.”

Mom gives me a look that I think is amused and touched and sad too. She breathes in and blinks a few times too fast. “Okay, then. Go shower and I’ll get breakfast ready.” She sets the case on the table and brings the cloth bag over to the kitchen, starts to pull out eggs and bread and milk, cinnamon and sugar.

My stomach growls. “Are you making french toast?” It’s such a normal question, such a typical mom kind of effort, that it throws me. She used to make it all the time, and her french toast is fluffy and crispy, with a buttery sweetness so light it doesn’t even need syrup.

“Oui!” she says, smiling.

I shower quickly, repeating the same words over and over. Mom is making breakfast. Mom is making breakfast. When I’m done, I quietly settle myself on a stool at the kitchen counter and find that Mom is indeed making breakfast. While she cooks, I watch her, looking for anything that gives her away: a stumble here, a nip from a hidden bottle. Nothing but normal mom behavior and reluctantly I record, She seems different. In a good way. Then add, because I don’t want to give myself false hope, She forgot I don’t like syrup and put it on my french toast.