“Yes, I know.” I sit down in my reading chair and try to ignore the flurry of risqué memories it now brings to mind. “Again, I’m sorry. I’ll make sure to keep checking in from now on.”

“Good. So has it been a den of productivity over here this week? Is that why you’ve been too busy to make a five-minute phone call to your mother?” My mom speaks two languages: English and guilt. If only she would harness her powers for good instead of evil.

“Pretty much,” I agree. “Just wall-to-wall productivity.”

“Well, that’s good. I know you’re cutting it close. Is there anything I can read yet?”

“Not quite but soon. I think you’ll like it. It’s another historical.”

“I like everything you write and I like contributing, too. Speaking of, I got these for you.” She picks up the shopping bag beside her and holds it out for me. I stand up from my chair and take it with a wary smile.

“Thank you.” I reach into the bag and, one by one, pull out three tank tops, all made with thin material. I force my smile to hold. “These are great. Very thoughtful.”

“You don’t like them.” Her voice is passive but lined with frustration.

“I think they’re very you.”

“You haven’t even tried them on yet. The colors will complement you so well. Why don’t you like them?”

“Because I don’t, Mom. I like T-shirts and sweaters and tops you can’t see through.”

“Return them, then,” she says, crossing her legs and looking around the room. “The receipt is in the bag.”

A familiar twinge of disappointment settles inside me. “I don’t mean to sound unappreciative, but you always buy me clothes that you know I won’t wear.”

“Lesson learned. I won’t buy you clothes anymore.”

“Mom, come on,” I say, waiting until she finally looks at me. “Why does it have to be like this? I love seeing you and spending time with you, but every time we get together our talks always turn snappy.”

“You’re the one who gets snappy. I’m just trying to encourage you.”

“Encourage me to what?”

“To improve yourself. To venture out of your comfort zone.”

“But why do I have to improve myself?” I sigh, feeling like we’re going round and round all over again. “You act like I’m some miserable crone wading through a swamp just because I don’t live your lifestyle and dress the way you want me to.”

“All I’m trying to do is help. When you lived at home, you always felt insecure wearing anything that wasn’t three sizes too big. To this day you practically wear the same stretchy pants and sweater every time you come over. Am I supposed to see you struggling and do nothing?”