“Star,” she begins. She shakes her head. “Honey, you have to deal with that. It’s always going to come up. Just remember, it’s not your fault your father walked out on you. On us, I mean. And besides, it made you who you are today. Remember?” She lowers her voice. “We’ve rehearsed this a million times, Star.”

Of course I remember. It’s one of the lines I’m expected to say whenever a reporter asks about how my dad’s leaving shaped my life. It made me who I am today, I always say slowly, thoughtfully. That which doesn’t break us makes us stronger. If they press on and say, But did it hurt you? Do you miss him? I sadly say, I never really had the chance to know him. It’s always been my mom and me, as long as I can remember.

But the thing is, I don’t really mean it.

I do remember my dad. A little, at least. Just bits and pieces, really—foggy images of playing ring-around-the-rosy with him or of him waiting at the bottom of a playground slide to catch me. I have vague memories of him tucking me in at night and singing me to sleep with Beatles songs from the sixties. I don’t remember him seeming like he wanted to leave.

But what did I know? I was only three.

“Honey, you really have to nail this interview,” Mom says, clearly already done with the subject of my father. “The cover of Dial is a big deal.”

“I know.” Of course I know. I know how this whole thing works.

“Good,” Mom says. She takes another bite of duck. I watch her jealously. Her meal looks way better than mine. “I just want you to know how much I love you, honey. Really. Being your mother is such a gift.”

A leaf of lettuce actually falls out of my mouth. She’s staring at me with wide blue eyes, a gentle expression on her face. For a moment, I wonder if I heard her wrong. I can’t even remember the last time my mom said “I love you” to me, and suddenly she’s pouring out her heart? I glance around suspiciously, wondering if there are reporters nearby, but although people around the restaurant are staring at us (which I’m so accustomed to I hardly notice anymore), the diners within earshot all seem absorbed in their own conversations. Unbelievably, Mom actually seems to be saying something kind to me for real.

“I . . . I love you too, Mom,” I respond shakily, still totally caught off guard.

“We make a good team, don’t we?” she says, beaming at me. “Just you and me, against the world.”

“Um, yeah,” I say, confused by her sudden and unexpected display of emotion. Mom reaches across the table and grasps my hand. I notice her palm is sweaty.