The pink blanket is on her lap and she is staring at the photograph. My dish of sorbet is still sitting on the counter. Suddenly I crave the simple cold sweetness on my tongue. I stand silently, spooning the melted goop into my mouth. I finish off what’s in the bowl and get the container out of the freezer and keep eating. It’s easier than talking. And I figure the ball’s in her court. No way am I starting this conversation. “She made this for you, you know,” she says. She strokes the blanket. “She was so young—your age. Can you imagine?” I laugh. It comes out more like a seal’s bark. Harsh and loud. I can’t imagine anything at the moment, other than getting away from her and her lies. I was nine when she told me I was a sperm-donor baby. Up until then I hadn’t worried too much about not having a dad. I kind of wondered what had happened to mine, but lots of my friends had no dads. Vanessa’s was dead, Rory’s took off when Rory was little, Jason’s was in jail.
