" There she is,” my mother says. “What is she doing? Doesn’t she know she’s late? That everyone is already seated and waiting for her to arrive? Is she even dressed? Is this what she’s going to wear? Didn’t we agree on the green?” This is the first time I’ve seen her since I was her. My stepfather dodders behind, posture arranged in its familiar apologies-in-advance. The concierge and I are still blinking in the pleasant afterthought of her daughter, an angel despite it all. I say, “Are we talking to me? "

― Marie-Helene Bertino , Parakeet