Sit her down. Tell her you have bad news.

It started when you were a young child. In your first game of kickball you kicked the ball the wrong way. Repeatedly. They told you you had no skills. Desperate to find a hobby in which you excelled, you joined another team. A dodgeball team. The first time a ball hit you, a rage began to smolder. Your team had let it happen. It didn’t matter that you didn’t doge, what mattered was your team was bad.

Teamwork was just talk. Sick by the notion that they could win, you were taken by a tempest of emotions, until a single thought shone through. They said you had no skills. But they were wrong. You had a very, very good one. You stood still, a mad grin spreading across your face, silently requesting, no, demanding, the enemy to hit you. And they did. The cries of your teammates were lost to the wind as they were defeated. And deserved it. Elated, you took your last breath as an ordinary person. You’ve since joined the ranks of the most anathematized group known to existence, Yasuomains, whose glory is known across the globe.

You take your mother’s hand in your own and tell you have found a place where one has no need of skill. You have found a home, one to which only another inting interested recruit has a key.

… or just dodge the question until she rage quits.