My mother is the kind of person who has a happy face for the rest of the world but not a lot left over for me.
She’s never talked to me muchnot about her feelings, her life.
I don’t know much about what she was like when she was my age. Don’t know much about the things she liked or didn’t like.
The few times she mentioned her own parents, who I’ve never met,
it was mostly about how she wanted to get as far away from them as she could once she’d grown up.
She never told me why. I asked a few times, but she would pretend she hadn’t heard me.
I didn’t want to go to camp that summer. I had wanted to stay with her, to help her through the divorce.
But she insisted I go away. I figured she wanted the alone time, so I gave it to her.
Camp was awful. I hated it. I thought it would be better being a junior counselor, but it wasn’t.
No one I knew from the previous year had come back, so I didn’t know anyone— not a single person.
I’m not even sure why, but I started playing this little make-believe game with the girls in the camp.
They’d ask me stuff about myself, and I’d make things up: my parents are in Europe, I told them.
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