I'm in my own kitchen, and I don't know where anything is.
"Where are the spoons?"
"That drawer," my mother says, not looking up from the newspaper.
"Which drawer?" I ask, mildly irritated.
She looks up, maybe hearing my resentment. She points. I open the drawer and retrieve a spoon. She returns to her newspaper. I open the fridge and get the milk.
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"Mom?"
"Huh?" she asks, distracted.
"Where's the cereal?"
We both sigh.
It's not the end of the world. My father changed jobs spring of my sophomore year of high school and began working in Harrisburg. My mother and I stayed in Bethesda, Md., so I could finish high school in the same place I'd started it. He commuted home on weekends. And after I graduated, they moved.
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