I'd not told that story to anyone, never mentioned that stupid shit's son was ever in my class, but of course, when my mother moved in, she forced me to tell her everything. [...]

'You know,' she said, 'I read in Marie Claire that if a son suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder, the mother suffers her own kind of post-traumatic stress disorder, but you never think of me.'

'I can't stand you right now,' I said. 'Go to your room.'

'You go to your room, you little shit. I can't believe you talk to me this way. I'm your mother. I'm not going to talk to you ever again.'

I stood up, trying to go to my room, but she pulled my arm and I fell back to the sofa.

'Where are you going?' she said.

'To my room. You're not speaking to me.'

'You can't go to your room,' she said. 'How can I not speak to you if you're not here for me to not speak to?'

'You make no sense,' I said.

We remained next to each other, uncomfortable and irritated, watching and hating Monsieur Micho on the news. My mother and I bonded in our sulk.