Too bad I’d basically thrown up tomatoes and fake meat today.

I swallow hard, feeling much like I did earlier—feverish and scared. Of all the days Mom might choose to let go of her anger toward me, why today?

“Thanks, Mom.” I try to smile, but my mouth is coated in a thick, sour layer of saliva.

Her smile falters. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I take my seat at the table, trying to keep my voice light, but I’ve already ruined what she is trying to do here. She looks away before I finish speaking, tightening her jaw as she starts serving food.

Mom’s always been challenging because of her episodes, but since I told her about the dead, she watches me more than ever and scrutinizes every word I speak. I guess it’s easier for her to focus on my issues than her own.

Her movements are quick and jerky. She tosses spaghetti on a plate so hard, the whole thing crashes to the table. That fuels her anger, so she slings sauce on top, except it doesn’t land on the spaghetti. It lands in a line across the table and my face.

I reach for my napkin and wipe the red pulp from my face, not looking at her. Somehow, I have gotten it into my head that if I don’t meet her stare, this won’t hurt as bad.

Being around Mom is confusing. It’s like walking on a perfectly normal floor when it shifts beneath you, opening a chasm. The drop makes your stomach rise into your throat, but the joke’s on you because you land on your feet. The aftermath remains, and you feel shaky and unsteady, completely unsure of what you did wrong. Was it a look you gave, a word you said?

Mom picks up the plate she’s destroyed and disappears into the kitchen. While she’s gone, I clean up the sauce. My eyes water, but nothing more.

She returns to the dining room with clean plates and serves again. This time, she’s calm.

It’s moments like this I wonder what it might be like to have a dad. Would he be the force field that protects me from Mom’s anger? Poppa was.

Silence strains between us as Mom sits down after her second attempt serving dinner tonight. I work around my food, only eating plain pasta.

When Mom speaks again, it’s like she’s erased the last ten minutes from her memory. Her voice has a happy, interested edge. She even smiles. It’s the turn of her lips I focus on, because I know if I meet her gaze, I won’t see anything there—no warmth, no happiness, no Mom.

“I didn’t get to ask you how school went today.”

“It was great. There’s a football game Friday. I think it might be considered sacrilege if I don’t go.”