“She called yesterday.” Aunt Sarah doesn’t have to say who, because anyone other than my mother would just call my cell phone. Normal people actually want to talk to you, because they care. My mother just wants the illusion of caring. Next time I see her—which will likely be around my birthday next spring, because she’s sentimental like that—she’ll point out how many times she tried to call me. Like I’ve got a scorecard and she’s earned some points. In reality, I stopped keeping score when I was nine and she told me she was moving back for good and then didn’t. And I stopped caring around twelve, when I moved in with Aunt Sarah and knew that the illusion of my mother figuring her crap out was officially over. I don’t even know what state she’s currently in. She seems to just pop from place to place, without a care in the world.

When I think of family, I think of Aunt Sarah and my Oma—even though she’s mostly in Florida these days—and Zander, and his family. And Emma, my best friend since kindergarten, who is walking through the back door right now, letting it slam behind her.

“I did it!” she belts out.

“I’ll leave now.” Aunt Sarah glances at Emma and her eyes go wide. It’s not that Aunt Sarah isn’t fun, she just likes her fun a little quieter. And with fewer sweeping arm movements.

“You don’t have to,” I say. Unlike me, Emma doesn’t care what people think about what she says, or how she dresses, or anything, really. Aunt Sarah’s probably worried she’s about to hear Emma’s “first time” story. That ship has sailed.

“Oh yes, I do,” Aunt Sarah says, glancing down at my computer as she passes by. “But let’s talk later, okay?”

I love that Aunt Sarah doesn’t ask about my writing. I guess maybe it’s out of habit, since when I started, it was a journal my therapist gave me. At first I wrote about my mom, because I thought that’s what they wanted, but they never asked to look at it. So eventually I just started jotting down little thoughts I’d have. Usually it was a note about my life—something I wanted to change, a wish I had for how things actually were, something I felt bad about. But eventually they turned into little stories. My own little world where I controlled the outcome. And I suppose maybe that was the point all along.