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.

Six months after her death, I like to believe Lucy is waiting for me
My reaction to man’s home taught me more about me than about him
NOTEBOOK: Simplistic storytelling on TV news pushing nation to war
Lens of narcissism is only way to understand Donald Trump’s crime
Bernanke: Recovery ‘faltering,’ so let’s do more of what hasn’t worked
Dead man’s watch always there to remind me of my own mortality
When life becomes too passive, we stop earning our self-respect