““Hey,” I say, taking a seat on an island stool. “Did anyone call for me?” “Your dad and I had a great day; thanks for asking.” Mom smirks. “How was your day? Did anyone call for me?” I smile. She dumps a gob of coconut oil into her raw-ful mixture. “ Anyone meaning Ben?” “Am I that transparent?” “It’s just that I was sixteen once, too.” “Right,” I say, shuddering even to think of her pre-forty, pre-me, pre-Dad, when it was just her hippie self, burning incense, going braless, and dating poets.””