I have a memory of my mother, aimlessly driving, drumming her hands on the steering wheel. She wears her hair in a bun held in place by a pencil. She’s the only person I’ve ever met who does this. She’s picked me up late from school once again. At this point she’s stopped giving excuses for why. Now she’s singing along to the song on the radio. The first time ever I kissed your mouth …

I’m shocked to discover she knows about love. I must be nine years old. At this point my father has been dead (or “gone away,” as we said) for two years. Up until now I’d assumed that love was something set aside for me, a muggy world of affect from which she, as my mother, was barred. It was nothing personal. She belonged to a world of grown-up things like cars and work, while I belonged to a secret underworld of romance and desire. Now I’m forced to reconsider her, this prettyish woman in sweatpants, her grave-colored hair. Wisps of it frame her thin face. She’s lost so much weight. She catches me staring and smiles.