I was late. Not a five-minute, “Oh, there was traffic” late. This was big late, the kind of late that would end with my dad’s dramatic sighs and a lecture about how Estelle had to keep the oven on to warm the food, but now the chicken was all dried up, and did I ever think of anyone but myself? I was already supposed to be at my dad’s house and I was still sitting in my driveway. As I said, late.

I wasn’t sure why I was prolonging my lateness by sitting in my car and staring out the windshield in silence. Sometimes I wished my car wouldn’t start, so I wouldn’t have to go, though my dad would complain even more and come pick me up. I hated any and all obligations that I had no control over. I didn’t like to be told what to do and where to be, and yet I let my dad put that burden on me. He’d applied that kind of pressure my whole life—and I did nothing to stop it.

I checked my phone again: a missed call from a random number. When I called back, an automated robot voice said it was a collect call for my mother. I bet the bill collector would have more success finding her than I would. My mom was the last person I needed to think about right now, and I started to feel that sinking pit in my stomach that I didn’t have the energy for tonight.