Something is wrong.
my identity was based on lost opportunities.
I don’t feel a mother’s love. Not hers. Not my own.
She puts us on edge, a certain something no one can name.
She wasn’t Zyla so he would never call her that, but he needed to call her something
They had never understood their mother.
And she says, “It doesn’t matter, what’s done is done.”
They are bored, you understand, and probably also angry and maybe even on drugs.
He started keeping a baseball bat by the front door, in the basket with the umbrellas and the yoga mats.
The city was as new to them now as they’d been to each other back then.