Entering the living room all puffy-eyed, Ma says she’s exhausted by the weight of life and asks that I give up our only piece of furniture, a tufted lounge chair in pale green she ordered from Wayfair last week. She used the credit card she doesn’t believe in but keeps behind the frozen spinach just in case. For example, in case she kicks out her perfectly cool boyfriend who loads his furniture and TV and cutlery into his buddy’s half-ton when Ma’s at work, and, when he hugs me goodbye, his wet mouth on my neck, whispers, I’ll miss hanging with you and your friends when your mom’s at work.

Only 423 days away from getting my own place.

I gather up my study notes and textbook and spread them out across the worn hardwood, and she curls up on the chair, sighs and says, “Sophie-baby, learn from my mistakes. Never date a man who poses in front of every mirror he passes.” She pulls off her socks and throws them in the middle of the empty living room and adds, “And stay away from men who are dumb as dodo birds.”

I scowl at my notes. As if she’s any brighter than Wayne. I don’t tell her dodos were likely smart as pigeons and had a better sense of smell, but I do tell her I’m trying to study.

She says, “The rest of the furniture should arrive any minute,” and groans as she massages the balls of her feet.

I wish I were brave enough to say You’re so pathetic you make me want to puke. Earlier, she was in the bathroom crying on the phone with Aunt Deb saying she’d booted Wayne out for good because she’d found suggestive photos of me on his phone while he was in the shower. My chest buzzed. I know it’s wrong, but it made me feel special. And pretty. Wayne always does did.

Ma clears her throat. I clench my teeth. She says, “Sophie, honey, you know he shouldna been doing what he was doing with you.”

I imagine yelling, Do you think this breakup doesn’t affect me? I say, “Wayne made me popular. He’s gone now, so I’m a nerd again. I’ve gotta cram for my Physics final so I don’t end up going nowhere.” Like you.

My notes blur. I stare at the spot on the floor where I’ve been sleeping since Wayne and his pullout couch disappeared because I refuse to share the leaky air mattress with Ma. It reminds me of Wayne and how he and his bulgy muscles crawled in between me and whatever friend was sleeping over. How Wayne pulled mickeys of whiskey if I let him put his hand on my butt. My friends thought he was hot, so I never minded much.

The buzzer sounds. Ma hops up from the chair to buzz in the furniture guys and slips on her socks.

~

Within the hour, our place could be featured on the cover of a lifestyle magazine. Ma waves the credit card in my direction and says, “Might as well keep splurging. Pizza?”

“Hawaiian?” Wayne hated pineapples. Ma goes to the kitchen, and I test out the new murphy bed. So much better than Wayne’s saggy hide-a-bed.

Our tiny apartment fills with the smell of buttery popcorn. I find Futurama on Netflix, paused on the last episode Wayne interrupted getting home from the gym—he didn’t get the humour.

Ma, gigantic bowl in hand, says, “Scooch,” and I press play. Fry is telling Bender he should have picked a better moment to break up with the ship, but Bender says, Call me old-fashioned, but I want a dump to be as memorable as it is devastating. We laugh and laugh and laugh.

When the pizza guy arrives, I hit pause and Ma pulls the plastic from her back pocket like it’s loaded gun. My stomach swirls—there’ll be few moments like these before I leave home. She’s doing her best to make things right again. Softly, I say, “I’m glad it’s just the two of us again,” because hugging her would be too awkward.