“No, you wouldn’t! Because every time I asked, something else was more important. Work. Reorganizing the craft room. Burners. Window latches. You barely pay attention to me unless I’m breaking the nonsensical rules we live our lives around! Do you realize how lucky you are that I’m not a drug addict or a dropout? How would you even cope with that?”

“You would never do those things,” my mother says, her tone clipped. “And just because things could be worse doesn’t mean you suddenly get a free pass to do things with Will’s parents that I wouldn’t let you do.”

“Too late!” I yell. My heart is pounding like it’s going to punch a hole through my ribs. “If you won’t help me, I have to take care of myself!”

“Taking care of you means keeping you safe.” Her voice shakes.

“Safe from what? From ever becoming independent? From knowing my father actually loves me? Safe from seeing him? Safe from imaginary germs? The things you insist on don’t even make sense. You know that fruit doesn’t have to be washed with soap before being put in the refrigerator, right? I don’t wash the things I bring home from the store. I don’t even always disinfect the cutting board twice after I cut meat. And we aren’t dead yet!”

She reacts like I slapped her, then scurries to the sink and starts scrubbing at the cutting board as though bleaching it now will somehow make up for all the times I didn’t.

“This is why you and Dad divorced, right? And apparently you spent years discouraging him from emailing me because it upsets me? You’re the one upsetting me!”

“He chose to leave,” she snaps, dropping the cutting board into the sink. “We don’t need him. You have me. I have you. That’s all that matters.”

“He’s staying away because you told him to! And I’ve never had you. Your job is more important than I am. So is shutting the garage door properly. The time. Even alphabetizing my books! Everything else!”

“That’s not true. Nothing is more important than you! I love you.” She leans on the counter, swiping at her eyes, her hands trembling.

“If you loved me, you would have told me that Dad wanted to visit. You would have gotten help. Therapy. Something!”

I’ve rendered her speechless. She gulps at the air like a dying fish.

“We can’t go on like this.” I push back my chair and stand up. My chest feels so tight, I can hardly breathe. “I’m going to the play now,” I say, swatting at my stinging eyes with the sleeves of my shirt. Mom makes no move to stop me.

So I leave.

Guilt follows me, deepening the farther I get from home.