My Mustang squealed into the gravel driveway and I winced. Could I have drawn any more attention to the fact that I was home two hours later than I was supposed to be? Only my mom’s antique vehicle was parked, but impending doom still filled my stomach. My engine puttered off and I took a deep breath. It was time to channel my inner ninja.

With stealth-mode activated, the gravel cracked as I gingerly stepped to the tiny, unkempt back porch. I entered the back hall, where the leftover scent of spaghetti sauce sent a rumble up my stomach. When I thought it was safe for me to jog up the back stairs, the back door’s latch made a shrill click.

“Look who decided to come home,” a tired voice came half a second later. “Let’s talk, Nick.”

I couldn’t treat my mom like I’d treated Mr. Hoover, no matter how many lectures she gave. No matter how many punishments I received. That was my resolve after she’d started working even more hours for my inevitably too-high college tuition: I wouldn’t make things harder for her.

Instead, I tiptoed around her, trying to avoid conversations like the one we were about to have, and she found ways to have them anyway.

“What’s happening?” I entered our messy kitchen—with several chocolate chips long lost under cabinets and a pot with spaghetti sauce drying on the sides—to see her already in her bathrobe, hot tea at the ready. My mom and hot tea were like peanut butter and banana, or like Oreos and Jell-O shots: next-level iconic. If I ever saw my mom without her soothing, peppermint herbal tea, I’d initiate DEFCON 1.

She motioned for me to take the hot seat on the other side of the magazine-covered table. “Where’s Dad?”

“The Maxins’.”

Right. Robert’s house. Our dads, just two bros, reclined in front of whatever game was on, with cold ones and mini-pizzas—this is what I pictured whenever someone mentioned the American Dream.

“Which is lucky for you,” my mom continued, “because you get the lecture from me.”

So lucky.

My parents had lived in the same house since before I was born. Essentially, they’d bought it as a starter house (apparently that’s a thing), but then decided that having one kid (yours truly) was enough and stayed put. I didn’t mind because I wasn’t at home much. Our house being small was probably the main reason why I stayed out. The second reason? Carter’s house had junk food.

Nonetheless, it meant that when I sat across from her, every line on her once beautiful skin was basically right in my face. Most of these lines existed because of me.

“Sorry, I know I said I wouldn’t get detention this year. I was late and . . .”

“Buying doughnuts on the way to school can make you late, can’t it?”

“I needed the coffee—”

My mom raised her eyebrow, stopping me in my completely screwed tracks. I didn’t question how she knew about the doughnut. As frustrating as she could be, the lady was smart. Chief scientist/X-Files professor/Hermione Granger–level smart. Companies hired her to interview potential applicants and evaluate their employees. She’d conduct twenty-minute interviews and, based solely on that, determine whether people should be hired or promoted.