Scene: Bobbie is 23 years old. We haven’t spoken in months, maybe years, after a mostly tumultuous relationship that only got worse once the girl hit puberty, and it was all downhill from there, and despite my best efforts to love her, it seems I can’t do anything right. She shows back up and says she’s been in therapy, I make her a cake that she won’t touch. So I ask her why, why she ‘can’t with me.’ BECAUSE YOU CUT ME, MOM. I’m thrown. When did I cut you, Bob? WHEN I WAS TWO WEEKS OLD. YOU WERE TRIMMING MY NAILS, YOU WERE CARELESS AND TRYING TO GET IT DONE SO YOU COULD DO SOMETHING SELFISH LIKE THE LAUNDRY. I BLED AND CRIED, AND YOU STUCK A BOTTLE IN MY MOUTH. I go white. You remember that? She does. Her therapist says this is why she can’t sleep or trust me or attach to other humans or open a bank account or digest gluten. Also I owe her two thousand dollars, for the therapist.