126. Dear Kiddo, Take My Hand Into Darkness

Not long after Mom flashed her infamous I-just-ate-your-soul smirk—y’know, the one she rocked while gushing about her “perfect little winter romance” with Brent, Denver’s kombucha-chugging wannabe Nietzsche—I was left in the dust. She poofed again, off to “align her chakras” or probably just stress-test her Tinder inbox.