In the intervening years, Dad had tried to get me to reach out, said she was doing much better, but eventually he stopped asking. Likely because she’d slipped off the wagon, I’d guessed. And I was right, because the next time I saw her was at my graduation, when she had to be escorted out of the ceremony. But Dad had saved the token, put it into a large mason jar that he set on the kitchen counter. It sat alone in that jar for years, gathering dust, a pathetic reminder of her failed promises.

And now she’s here again.

“It’s Mom.”

I grit my teeth, open the door a crack, and sniff the air for the familiar odor that always surrounds her, like the alcohol seeps from her pores. Instead, I smell something sweet like honey and vanilla, and a lump rises in my throat because those smells bring up unbidden memories from when she was the mom who let me lick cake batter from a spatula.

“What are you doing here?” I say through the crack.

Her eyes are soft. “I wanted to see you.”

“Does Dad know you’re here?” I already know the answer because if he did, he would have told me and it would be in my notes. Dad never lies to me.

Her shoulders relax with relief, maybe, or something else? I think I’m pretty good at reading body language and facial expressions. I should be because often it’s all I have to go on in conversations where I can’t remember who I’m speaking with or what we’ve been speaking about.

“Vance invited me, Claire.”

My nostrils flare. Now I know she’s lying—my father would never invite her to my home. And I know that the smell that infuses me with memories of the good days is nothing but a ruse, a perfume to cover the ugly truth of her addiction. When I was very little, she would cry out at night, her arms and legs thrashing around so hard that when I tried to crawl into bed to comfort her, she would elbow me. The sound still ping-pongs inside my head, brings back the coldness of the hallway on my bare feet when I ran to Ruth for help.

She holds her hand out. “Claire, wait—”

A buzz from my phone with a reminder. Make a chicken Caesar salad for the dinner party. I nod at the phone, thankful to have a job, and close the door without saying anything. Before I forget, I pick up a pad of sticky notes from the counter and write myself an important directive—Mom is a liar—and stick it to the refrigerator.