The same day, my mother laid my Christmas wish list on the kitchen counter between us. This is how we discussed most things, her on one side of the counter, and me on the other. She set her cigarette in an ashtray made of tin foil.

"Are you serious with this?" she said, reaching for another cigarette.

My eyesight was poor enough that my own handwriting was basically illegible. I put the list closer to my face and reread it. She took a drag without taking her eyes off of me. I sat the list back on the counter, folded my arms over my chest, and nodded. Everything was there. She pointed to a few items on the list.

"You want a teddy bear, a coloring book, and a Kenny Loggins album? Who is Kenny Loggins?"

"He's just a singer. I like some of his songs."

My mother narrowed her eyes, waiting for me to elaborate. She knew who Kenny Loggins was. What she didn't know was why her 13-year-old daughter was asking for the greatest hits CD of a '70s/'80s yacht-rock legend. My mother had a habit of clinging to the belief that because she'd given birth to me, I was incapable of keeping secrets from her. This usually worked in my favor. If I was quiet, she'd come up with her own theories about strange behaviors or how I discovered things she hadn't personally introduced me to, and she would be satisfied. So, I remained silent, tugging on the bottom of my shirt so it covered the bare half-inch below my navel.