My mother and I are twins, in the fraternal sense. Ignoring the impossibility of the premise, one out of two strangers assume us to be siblings. When she’d come to pick me up early from school for an appointment or spontaneous thrifting trip, the administrator would say, “Oh I’m sorry, we need a parent to sign her out,” to which my mom would initiate her thoroughly rehearsed compliment-acceptance speech, “Well, I know I look good, but I’m actually her mom (insert fake laugh).” The ensuing scene of shock and awe at my mother’s youthful skin and the accompanying inflation of her head would then invoke my most supreme eye-roll as a knee-jerk response.
In hindsight, this was the least of my concerns for having a teenage mother, but for a shallow middle schooler who just wanted a “normal” mother, it was a horrendous affair. I had always known my mother