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in the West Indies. She’s all of twenty-two or twenty-three years old. Several more photographs show her smiling in a blue swimsuit. The light in these photographs has a dreamlike quality—washed out, blue green, and slightly overexposed, making them seem like they are from some other part of the world where the light reflects off the ocean differently. In one of the photographs, a chocolate-skinned woman is standing next to Mom, holding a tray topped with a drink that has a pink umbrella sticking out over the rim.
    I recognize this photo because my mother had it out during one of my visits a little over a year ago. I inquired about it because I couldn’t comprehend how she had ended up in the West Indies, of all places, when she had three small children at home. When she was on her second glass of wine, I felt bold enough to ask her. Even though her health was starting to fail, I didn’t try to stop her from drinking because I wanted the straight story, unblemished and from her mouth.
    â€œMy parents sent me there,” she said.
    â€œFor how long?”
    â€œA month.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause they didn’t know what else to do, I guess. They were worried that I was going to have some kind of breakdown.”
    I didn’t say anything, sensing that I have caught her in a rare moment of revealing something about herself.
    â€œThey sent me to this very upscale resort so that I could have some time to think and figure out what I was going to do with myself. I was not well. I was having a hard time being a decent wife and a mother, and I needed to get away.”
    She walked to the stove and clicked the burner until it lit up with a blue and orange flame. Then she held a cigarette against the fire ’til it caught and lifted it to her lips.
    â€œSo my parents came up with this ludicrous plan. My father dragged me down to a New York lawyer—a real stuffed shirt—and told me what was going to happen. After a week of being at the resort, the lawyer said all I needed to do was write a letter to your dad, begging him to come get me off the island. If I wrote a letter and your dad refused to come get me—which the lawyer assured me that your dad would do, since he had his job and you three kids to take care of—that could stand as grounds for me to divorce him and get custody of you kids.”
    She stopped talking like she was suddenly caught back in that moment.
    â€œIt was god-awful sitting in that office wedged between my father and that slick lawyer. He looked at me like I was white trash and told me I was lucky because he would sort it all out for me.”
    â€œBut you ended up staying at the resort for a month, right? Dad never came to get you?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    I was trying to imagine my mom there, lonely in her blue swimsuit, weighing all her choices. “So what did you do there all that time?”
    â€œI partied.”
    â€œYou what ?”
    â€œI partied,” she confirmed.
    I don’t know why her answer startled me, but it did. I wanted a different explanation, even if it was a lie. I wanted her to say that she thought about us the whole time or that it was one of the most difficult periods of her life. I wanted her to sit down on that kitchen chair and tell me for once that she was sorry for what happened.
    â€œI’m tired, darlin’—I gotta head to bed,” she said, throwing back the last sip of wine.
    But I have one more question. “What about the letter? Did you ever send the letter to Dad?”
    â€œNo, I just couldn’t do it. It was all so ridiculous.” She shrugged.
    I watched her sway out of the room.
    And that’s when I understood the layers beneath her words. She didn’t send the letter because it would have meant she was committed to coming back to us. And she wasn’t. She needed the vacation but she didn’t want custody of us.
    The photograph of my mom in the