When she went to leave, I ran after her. I was barefoot on the porch and my feet stung. The rain had frozen and was hitting against the corrugated green fiberglass roof. It sounded like a gun. Ice had slipped onto the floorboards and turned the wood to glass. I begged my mother not to go. Queen of the universe. The girl who thought of no one but herself. Now I know the most desperate arguments are al­ways over foolish things. The moment that changes the path of a life is the one that’s invisible, that dissolves like sugar in water. But tell that to an eight-year-old girl. Tell it to any­one; see who believes you.

When my mother said that Betsy and Amanda were wait­ing for her and that she was already late, I made my wish. Right away, I could feel it burning. I could taste the bitter­ness of it; still I went ahead. I wished I would never see her again. I told her straight to her face. I wished she would dis­appear right there, right then.

My mother laughed and kissed me good-bye. Her kiss was clear and cold. Her complexion was pale, like snow. She whispered something to me, but I didn’t listen. I wanted what I wanted. I didn’t think beyond my own needs.

My mother had to start the car several times before the en­gine caught. There was smoke in the air. The roof of the patio vibrated along with the sputtering engine of the car. I could feel the sourness inside me. And here was the odd thing about making that wish, the one that made her disappear: it hurt.

“Come inside, idiot,” my brother called to me. “The only thing you’ll accomplish out there is freezing your ass off.”

Ned was logical; he was four years older, an expert on constellations, red ants, bats, invertebrates. He had often told me that feelings were a waste of time. I didn’t like to lis­ten to Ned, even when he was right, so on that night I didn’t answer. He shouted out a promise to read to me, even if it had to be fairy tales, stories he held in contempt.