“Meth is what you want,” she fumed. “I mean, if you’re going to be born exposed to something, alcohol is the absolute worst—opiates are bad, too, of course, but meth you can recover from. Look at you! You’re perfect!”

I had some problems with math, but none with words. I needed absolute quiet when I took tests, but otherwise, yes, I had escaped nearly unscathed.

I stirred hot fudge into my two scoops of mint chip and felt bad for my mom, because—God—meth? If it really did what they say it does to your face and brain, she probably hadn’t even known she was pregnant. Or had any teeth left. I stirred and stirred until my sundae was soup, all the whipped cream and everything a melted mess, and the pity dissolved and I was angry. The fuck was wrong with her? My mother had ruined my chances of anyone wanting me, ever.

And I was furious at Joellen. I wished I didn’t know, because now I felt unclean. Ripped off. I pretended to be sick for my next weekly lunch date with Joellen, and she was miserable. She wished she’d told me sooner. Or later. Or not at all. She didn’t know what to do, and neither did I. Finally, the third time I tried to ditch our date, she showed up anyway and drove us to the Seattle ferry dock and got me a pretzel, and we sat and watched the ferries come and go and the gulls and the seals playing, and she said she was sorry. She said to open my hand, and she put a shiny thing in it. Brass AA coin.

“Thirteen years sober,” she said. “I’m so proud of you.”

I understood later that Joellen wasn’t just being ironic and funny; she was bitter. Furious on my mother’s behalf and mine. Because my mom needed help and never got it. Because people who claimed they “wanted to be parents” were afraid of a baby with an illness I didn’t ask for, acting on the understanding I did not deserve parents because I wasn’t perfect. Punished for something I did not do, had no control over, and was not my fault.

“It’s a lucky thing none of them got their hands on you,” Joellen said. “You’re too good for them. This is your medal for bravery and patience. You will always have me, and I know your true family is out there, still,” she said. “They’re waiting for you.”

She didn’t know that by then I had long since found mine; I was my own true family. I could never leave. I would always take care of myself. I was all I ever needed. I knew I could never be alone, because I was enough.

—