“Hi, Claire! Oooh, that smells good,” Sefina says. “Must be your lemon-pepper chicken, hey?” Her smile is wide, teeth white against her smooth, dark skin. One dark winter night, Dad hauled away her abusive asshole of a husband. But that was a long time ago, at least for her.

Behind me I hear a door open, and when I turn, Ruth is stepping out of her apartment, holding a cellophane-wrapped tray with a tub of ice cream balanced on top.

“You made dessert?” I ask.

Her forehead creases. “Oh, um, no, I didn’t.” She stands with her lips pressed firmly together. My mouth quirks up. Ruth’s not a soft person, but she’s a good one. She stepped in when my mother turned to vodka, and well, truth is, at this point I’m probably more than she bargained for, but she doesn’t let on, at least not according to my notes. Her eyes travel over my shoulder and harden.

I turn and see nothing but my refrigerator covered in sticky notes. Some have directives like check expiration date on milk; others are observations: you hate broccoli. That one makes me laugh softly. No, I don’t. I’ve always loved it. Must be some kind of mistake—maybe I was thinking about someone else. I’ve just reached up to take it off when Harriet speaks from behind me. “Don’t take that one off, Claire, it’s true. You really, really hate broccoli now. Believe me; I forgot and served it the last time I hosted, and it made you gag.”

“Oh,” I say, and leave the note in place, a prickling frustration raking across my skin at the idea that I lose far more than I record. Wishing for all the world that I could just know and feeling the exhaustion of trying to exist as a normal person pooling in my pores. I am tired and, at the moment, feeling sorry for myself. Tears collect in my eyelashes, and I swipe at them, angry for this surge of weakness. It’s why I write everything down—so I can avoid this situation. I roll my shoulders, make a note about broccoli in the notebook, and turn back with a smile, hope they didn’t notice my emotional slip. “Guess I’ve changed my ways. No more broccoli, then.”

Ruth reaches past me, points to a note that says Mom is a liar. “Everyone can change, Claire, even your mom.”