She touched my leg with the toe of her shoe. I felt tenderness for her in that moment. I could tell that she was getting tired of our asymmetry. We’d been together on and off for four years, and by now she was beginning to resent the way I treated her, the decreasingly little effort I made, the fewer gestures of affection, the amount of time I spent elsewhere. I resented her for offering no resistance, for refusing to say something directly and choosing instead to let passive aggression seep through. She knew me better than anyone—we’d met in eating-disorder treatment; she had seen me at my most vulnerable. But it sometimes seemed like she still couldn’t see through me, still chose to believe in a version of who I was that we both knew no longer existed. And yet, as each other’s first relationship post-recovery, we were desperately clinging, terrified to let go.

I reached into my bag and pulled out an envelope, my acceptance letter folded up inside. “Well,” I said, tapping its short side on the table. “I signed it.” I felt a surge of fresh anxiety.

“Yay,” she said, halfheartedly. She sucked the straw in her drink; the last of the liquid rumbled as it gave way to emptiness. “Need me to mail it?” she asked. She had access to stamps on campus.

“Would you mind?” I said, sliding the envelope across the table. “By the way,” I said, shifting in my seat. “Guess who’s on her way to town?”

Anna hesitated for a moment. Then: “She is? Right now?”

I nodded. We both knew it was impossible to predict her visits. My mother was a consultant of sorts, a “cultural liaison,” which meant she was never tied to an office or location. “I bet she works for the CIA,” Anna would jokingly suggest.

“Where’s she staying?”

“I don’t think she knows yet,” I said. “But I’ll probably stay with her, at least the first night.”

This always annoyed Anna. “Isn’t that a little weird,” she’d asked several times before, “to share a bed with your mom when you’re in your twenties?” And I would assure her it was normal in our culture. But by now, she knew better than to address it.

As a consolation I offered, “Want to have dinner with her tomorrow night?”