“No, they’re dumb,” I insisted, launching into my reasoning without letting her stop me. “First, Snow White should’ve known the old hag was bad news. Sleeping Beauty could’ve had the prince arrested for sexual assault. Maybe Cinderella’s sisters weren’t ugly but it’s what she wanted us to believe. Oh, and if I’d been Rapunzel, I’d have chopped my hair off when the witch was in midclimb, so she’d have plunged to her death.”

Mom giggled. “Okay, so they’re a bit outdated—”

“Outdated?” I was on a roll. With any luck we’d continue this debate and she’d forget all about introducing me to Brad. “What about the ‘Someday My Prince Will Come’ song? Ugh. It’s never going to happen, and why hang around for a boy, anyway?”

“Honey, I understand what you’re saying and while I agree with most of it, you must see I’m lonely.” This was typical Mom. Always up-front and direct, never one to hide away her feelings. It was at least partially true what they said about apples and trees. I’d acquired my directness—something teachers called me out on daily—from her and my dad, had received a double dose of the bluntness gene while still in the womb.

“I’m tired of being alone,” Mom continued. “I want to be happy.”

“You’re not happy with me?”

“Maya...” She reached for my arm but I shook her off, stood up so quickly I knocked my chair back, and before she could stop me I fled to my room, locked the door and put on my headphones, ignoring her pleas for me to come out and talk. Still, as I turned up my music and grabbed a pair of chopsticks, slapping them on my desk and pretending I was a real drummer, I couldn’t drown out the fact I didn’t want Mom to be unhappy or lonely. I knew how it felt.

I gave in a day later, and much to Mom’s delighted hand-clapping, agreed to meet Brad and his son, Asher, for breakfast at a diner in Newdale, the town where they lived, which was on the coast about a twenty-minute drive south of us, and fifteen from Portland.

We arrived early. Mom hadn’t shown me any photos so I wouldn’t start what she already called our relationship with preconceptions, except I had them anyway. I pictured Brad bald and fat, unfair considering Mom could’ve been a model. I imagined Asher as a gangly fifteen-year-old, resembling the boys at school whose growth spurts had been too much, too fast, and left them stretched out like bubble gum. We’d have nothing in common, I decided, and even less to say to each other. I’d be stuck at the stupid diner until I could make some excuse about having a stomachache and get us to leave early.