I was never a good liar. My heart raced and my stomach churned like a washing machine. My mother asked how I was feeling and I said, “Fine,” but it was obvious that wasn’t true.

Fine was the answer you gave when other words were inadequate. Devastated. Angry. Heartbroken. None of them felt like enough.

“You should go to work,” I said. “You can’t cancel more shifts or you’ll get fired.”

I rolled over in the adjustable bed, careful of the IV in my arm and the sensors on my chest. My mother looked at the monitors, as if she could interpret the jagged line that pulsed across the screen or the repetitive beeps that made sleep impossible.

“Why don’t I bring you some of my squash soup,” my mother suggested. She lifted the cover off the hospital tray and frowned at the soggy turkey sandwich.

I shook my head. I had lost my appetite along with the most important parts of myself. That summer, I learned that no one disappoints you as deeply as you disappoint yourself.

My mother tucked her short brown hair behind her ear and joined me on the hospital bed. When her leg brushed up against mine, I scooted to the side, but she stopped me. Her hands cupped my face as she said, “Tess, I know you’re not fine. Talk to me.”

She made it seem like a simple task. But how could I cobble together an explanation when nothing made sense anymore. I was seventeen; discussing my emotions with my mother seemed like a pointless exercise. How could she know what it’s like to love someone so deeply, so fully, and have them ripped away?