I blink a few times. I will not cry in front of him. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

He looks at me for a few more seconds and smiles, then asks, “Nice day, huh?”

“Yeah,” I say, leaning back, the wicker poking through my tights. I’m glad the awkward moment has passed. “It’s—”

“So where’s that boyfriend of yours been?” he asks again.

I change the subject, asking him about the trip to a buffet everyone took last week. I try to listen as he responds, but all I can think about is how I’m letting him down. How all he wants is a normal daughter, one who wants to put on a white dress and walk down the aisle, and I can’t even give him that because that’s not who I am. And even if I were that person, it would never happen because he’s sick. It’s all a sad fantasy, one that I can’t bear to think about for too long.

* * *

Tracey’s in conversation with another employee as I leave, so I shoot her a look that I hope communicates, Well, that went as well as could reasonably be expected and also, good night, and then I head out to my car. I get in, cue up “Escape (The Piña Colada Song),” and start to drive home.

But I’m literally one line into this smooth banger about a guy getting tired of his lady when the tears flood my eyes so quickly and absolutely that I have to pull over onto a side street. I slide to a stop in front of a split-level house and turn off the car. Without Rupert Holmes’s voice singing about tropical drinks and attempting to cheat on his wife, the car is so, so quiet, and I decide this is the perfect time for one of my Five-Minute Cries.

Even someone like me, someone who steadfastly refuses to engage in pessimism or the dark side, someone who takes every possible chance to walk on the sunny side of the street, feels bad sometimes. It’s like every bad aspect of my life is a drop in the bucket, and eventually, the bucket is so heavy that I have no choice but to pour it all out in one slightly terrifying but brief cry session. It was my need for compartmentalization that led me to develop the revolutionary Five-Minute Cry system; sometimes, I pretend I’m on an infomercial describing it. There are several black-and-white shots of people attempting to go through their day-to-day duties, like working and school and baking, but unable to do anything because they can’t stop thinking about the overwhelming sadness in their lives. And then, we cut to me, on a stage in front of a live studio audience.

“Do you suffer from Unexpected Crying Jags Due to Shitty Life Circumstances?”

(The crowd applauds; there’s a close-up of a woman in the audience nodding at her friend.)

“I did, too, until I discovered the power of . . . the Five-Minute Cry!”