My friend asked the question out of the blue. I was spending the night with my friend, Larry, and I was lying on a twin bed in the corner of his room.
“What do you think about your mom being gone?” he asked.
It didn’t strike me as a difficult or important question, but something about the experience has burned everything about it into my memory. I was about 10 or 11 years old. Although my mother had been away from us off and on for years, the divorce had been final only for a year or two. She had no custody or official visitation.
I considered Larry’s question for a long moment. I felt very cold. Very hard. There was no emotion in my voice.
“I couldn’t care less if she moved to the Sahara Desert,” I said.
That’s all I said and Larry didn’t ask any more. It’s a good thing, because I might have cried if he had pushed to know what I meant. I was confused. I couldn’t tell if I felt nothing or if I felt more than I could handle. I swept the feelings under a rug in my heart — and I left them there.

‘I understand all you’re saying, but what if I’ve waited too late?’
For rest of my life, I’ll constantly re-interpret mother I didn’t know
What was I when I was a child? I’m still that same person today
As I quietly watch my world burn, I’m painfully aware this isn’t fine
Turkey pardon? How about pardons for jailed innocent people instead?
Spoiled brat sues White Castle because he can’t fit into a booth
Lucy’s fun afternoon at my office reminds me that work needs play
Danger of Iran war getting stronger because of blindness, hypocrisy