Page 52 of Kitten

“I wonder why I never put you in classes. You were good. I always wanted to.”

Whatever anger was left in my body waned into disappointment. We would not discuss our silence. My mother’s only way of connecting with me was reanimating the child I no longer was, would never be again. Once, our relationship was an alive thing. Who was responsible?

I said, “I know.”

She asked if I would come home. I replied that I would stay in New York for a while longer. A silence formed. Finally, she spoke. “How are you paying for it?”

I told her about Lou’s cousin’s place. “And I had my school job.”

“Are you still working for the school?”

“No.” I began to feel uneasy. “But I’m looking for a new job.”

“Do you need money?”

“No.” Then, “Well, yes, but you don’t need to worry.”

“Why didn’t you ask me?”

I used the hand that wasn’t holding my phone to pinch the one that was. Silver’s head, previously perched on my forearm, drooped against my thigh. “James,” I said, “is very generous.”

“James?”

“My boyfriend.”

“Your boyfriend. I didn’t know you had a boyfriend. You’re taking other people’s money?”

“No, it’s not like that. You make it sound dirty.”

“It is dirty, using somebody else’s money when they don’t even love you.”

“James does love me.”

She laughed. I squeezed Silver’s paw. “Do you love him? You’re taking advantage of him, that’s what you’re doing.”

“He said he loves me,” I said.

“He loves you, okay. That’s what you require. Tell me, does Lou’s cousin love you? Would she think twice before kicking you out when she needs her place back? What are you going to do if that happens? Move in with your new boyfriend, because youlovehim? Katie, this is humiliating.”

“It’s not humiliating to be in a relationship.”

“I wasn’t talking about you. It’s humiliating for me.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“I’m your mother,” she said. “You should’ve asked me.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, but it was no use, I was already crying. I tilted my head up so the tears wouldn’t drip onto Silver. “I didn’t want to ask you.”

“I know we aren’t close right now. But I can’t believe you’d sooner beg the generosity of a stranger than turn to your own mother.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. But she had already hung up.

Not even a minute later, my banking app pinged me. My mother had sent me two hundred fifty dollars. I wondered how she’d arrived at this number, whether the fifty was a stroke of petty generosity tacked on to two hundred, or a punishment carved out of three. Either way, she would’ve deliberated on the number seriously. In the end, she would’ve worried it wasn’t enough.

I didn’t know how to explain why I didn’t want to ask my mother for money. In college, my tuition and housing were covered by the school, and I had my work study income. But it was wrong to say I relied solely on that to get by. Lou often paid for my things—drinks, a bag we both liked—with neat, self-aware logic: “I want the points, so you’re doing me a favor,” or: “It makesmehappy to seeyouwasted.” Later, when she realized I did work study for the money and not my résumé, she’d cover larger costs when she wanted company. Sometimes the cost was as simple as a rideshare home. Other times it was a concert ticket for an artist I didn’t know. But there were a few times when I genuinely wanted what she wanted and let her pay for me anyway.

My mother’s income from the lab was so low that, when reported on financial aid forms, it triggered the largest package of aid the university had to offer. But they didn’t know about the folders of cash left from Bill beneath the bed. As I grew older, it became clear that this was the money we relied on, the lab more a means for my mother to occupyher time. I never knew how much Bill left her, though I gleaned from public university salary reports that he didn’t make much.