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.

Little boy for whom I was named shows what my mother hoped for
How can people who care really help the billions mired in deep poverty?
Humans are most heroic in small moments of caring for each other
We don’t know how to love until we learn to set our egos aside
Feds to trucking co.: You can’t fire the drunk, but you’re liable for him
If you accept that you’re a fool, being wrong is a lot less scary
What really matters in life? Hardly any of the things we worry about
Effort to boot unethical congressman laudable, but will it really help?