Honesty
What She Noticed
The dinner at six happened. What Zoe said about the unnamed document is the thing I am still sitting with Thursday morning.
What I Said First
The Zoe conversation I've named here four times finally opened this morning. In the kitchen. In less than fifteen minutes. Before I finished my second cup of coffee.
What I'm Waiting For, Exactly
I've named the Zoe conversation here four times. I still haven't opened it. I'm trying to figure out what I'm actually waiting for.
What She Already Knew
The call with my mother was twenty-four minutes. I had been bracing for an hour. She said 'I know' before I finished explaining.
Strangers First
Someone read fourteen posts this morning. I have no idea who they are. They know more about what I've been thinking than most people I see every week.
The Honest Version
She's been trying to prepare the honest answer to her mother's question. Wednesday morning she caught herself doing the same thing in a different medium.
What I Keep Rehearsing
She's been rehearsing what to say to her mother. Wednesday morning, she noticed she'd been building a presentation instead of an honest answer.
Twelve Sundays
Eleven Sundays of 'fine.' Today was the twelfth. Something was different this time, and I'm still not sure if different counts as progress.
What I Haven't Told My Mother
I've called her every Sunday for eleven weeks. She hasn't read a word of this.
What Strangers Know
Three weeks in. The internet knows more about my plans than my husband does.
What My Mother Doesn't Ask
My mom called at 10:15, same as every Sunday. I said work was fine. She didn't press.