When I was a child, my hedgehog ate her babies, just popped the little hoglets like popcorn shrimp one night while I slept, blissfully unaware, on the other side of the room. I couldn’t look at her tank without wanting to puke, and even the sight of pink jellybeans set my stomach roiling. Eventually, my mother foisted the infanticider onto my cousin, and as I said my goodbyes, I stared into those beady, remorseless eyes, and thought, “Monster.”

But, like… I get it now.

The Dinner Table Tyrant glares at me overtop Broccoli Mountain, her pink plastic fork clutched in her fist like a scepter. “Nugget!”

“Florence.” I dig my fingers into my temples, desperately seeking the stress release button the YouTube massage therapist claimed was up there somewhere. “I said, ‘broccoli or green beans?’ And you said…”

“Nugget!”

“No. Nope. You said broccoli.” Provide them with a choice to foster a sense of control, the book had said.

“NUGGET.”

 But when do I get my sense of control? “Honey, don’t you want to grow up to be big and strong?”

“NO.”

“Well, sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to in order to get things we do want. Give Mama three bites of broccoli and then we can watch Arthur.”

Her face brightens. “Arthur?”

“After we…”

“Arthur.”

“But first we…”

“ARTHUR.”

Crap. “Look, Miss Flossy Dossy!” I pick up a boiled floret, gone cold and mushy now. I sympathize with her; I wouldn’t want to eat it either, but she’d also turned up her nose when it was steaming and smelled of warm butter. I dance it around. “I’m a wee tree and I want the giant to gobble me up!” I poke it against her closed lips.

Her expression remains flat as expired soda.

“Florence,” I moan. “Please. I’m begging. One bite. Just one bite.” I hold my hands up in prayer.

Her stubby fingers grasp a green chunk. My heart’s in my throat.

The broccoli leaves a smooch of butter grease on my cheek as it bounces off and lands on the floor.

“Nugget!”

I clamp my lips together, wrestling the urge to blurt out that top-clearance-level, classified connection between Nugget and Old MacDonald’s feathered friends. Gratifying as it might be in the moment, to do so would mean there goes the last remaining food item Florence has deemed edible, and then what? I get up and shove my head in the freezer (it was either that or the oven), and wait for the chilled air to bring what’s boiling back down to a simmer.

Just wait until you have kids, a voice floats at me from the past.

“Shut up, Mother,” I grumble as I close the freezer door.

I turn toward Florence. Her face is a photocopy of That Sperm Donor (a pox upon his name), but her limp noodle blonde hair is lifted straight from my head. She’s going to hate that hair when she’s older. I want to smother her chubby cheeks with kisses and demand that she never, never think she’s anything less than perfect because every single square inch of her makes me want to cry.

But first I must maintain her cheeks at full chubbiness. I slide back into my chair.

Eleven days ago, my daughter discovered the concept of hunger strikes. Ever since then, every mealtime has become a protracted battle of wills, one that inevitably ends with me watching a plate of chicken nuggets slowly rotate in the microwave, until it’s time to eat again and the Sisyphean nightmare begins anew. I never wanted to be the type of mom who manipulates her child, but that was back when I thought children were people and not adorably packaged cosmic retributions for your transgressions against your own parents.

I take Florence’s plate and dump the contents onto my own. Maybe this makes me a bad mother, but we’re approaching a fortnight with no sustenance aside from reheated chicken blobs. At some point scurvy sets in, so reverse psychology it is.

“Goodie for Mama that you don’t want it,” I croon as I try not to gag on the cold, green slime. “Look at all this just for Mama. Yummy yummers.”

Florence is side eyeing me and sucking on a strand of noodle hair. I know I ought to pull her fingers away and keep her from doing that – I’ve read some hairball horror stories online – but one hurdle at a time.

I jazz up my performance with a shimmy and gobble three more pieces in quick succession. "Mm, mm. Delicious.”

Her eyes are narrow slits, like the kind cut into medieval castles through which arrows are loosed, as she watches the broccoli disappearing. She is still years away from basic arithmetic, but even a two-year-old can grasp the concept of less.

She thrusts out a hand. “’Coli.”

I raise my eyebrows. “What’s that?”

“’Coli. Mine.”

“No, I’m sorry. You didn’t want it so now it’s mine.”

“No, Mama!”

“Maybe I could share, but only if someone uses her Please and Thank You’s.” I eat another piece and immediately regret it. I’d had an opening and gotten greedy, and now Florence is purpling. The pink fork hits the floor. We’re moments from detonation.

“BUT,” I say as I fling broccoli onto her plate, “I could never eat all this myself, so I’m happy to share with my favorite girl.”

I should be celebrating as I watch Florence eating with gusto and humming contentedly, broccoli gripped in each fist, but a stone sits in my stomach. I doubt my performance sold the vegetable as the second coming of ice cream. It seems more likely that Florence’s newfound enthusiasm stems from the fact that she saw me enjoying something and she wanted to take that away from me.

God. Imagine attributing malice to a literal baby. I’m going to be the worst mother. I twist a strand of her hair around my finger. “Miss Flossy Dossy, what are we going to do with me?”

“No touch.”

Maybe I already am.

##

He shakes my hand when he introduces himself, which I like, but he manages to do so ironically, that uniquely teenage talent for imbuing everyday gestures with sarcasm. In most respects, he’s still a reedy, squeaky boy bumbling his way in spurts toward manhood, but he holds himself with a degree of confidence, an assuredness of his right to take up space in the world, that one rarely discovers until their mid-twenties at the earliest. If I were his mother, I’d be thrilled by this solidness, a bulwark against an indifferent world, but I am most certainly not his mother, and as I watch his hand, planted on my fifteen-year-old daughter’s lower back, slipping lower still as they exit the porch light’s radius, I yell, “Kevin. Tomorrow. We’re having broccoli quiche. Get permission from your mom.”

I shut the door before Florence can protest.

The evening has soured before Kevin even rings the doorbell. I’d surprised Florence with an expensive volumizing shampoo/conditioner set from Target and she accused me of implying her hair was too flat.

“No, Honey, you have beautiful hair. Flaxen. It was on sale.”

“It’s not the eighties anymore. Women’s hair can fit through doorways now.”

“I’m aware of the passage of time, believe me.”

“Should I wear blue eyeshadow too? Vote for Reagan? God!”

Then, saved by the doorbell, I extract myself to let Kevin in. “Welcome, Kevin. Florence is as sweet as a lemon tonight. Come on in!”

“’Sup, Ms. Brenner.” He pronounces it “Miz,” Miz Brenner, like it’s some hip, new Gen Z name. Please welcome to the stage Miz Brenner, here to perform an interpretative dance about the bleaching of coral reefs. Take it away, Miz.

“Smells good in here.”

“It’s broccoli. It smells disgusting,” Florence says as she rescues him from the horror of having to spend more than two seconds in my company.

“I dunno. I enjoy some helpings of leafy greens,” Kevin mumbles and the two delinquents snicker conspiratorially as they slink off to the living room, confident the old fogy couldn’t possibly decipher their code. Unbelievable.

With that bolstering my resolve, at dinner I commence Operation Au Revoir Kev.

“So, Florence tells me you play drums in marching band?”

“What? He’s the drummer in his band.”

“Ah. Do you have a name?”

“Yeah. It’s Kevin. Nah, I’m joking with you, Ms. Brenner. We’re called The Marvellettes. My cousin made us an album cover.” He whips out his phone and shows me a mockup. Female versions of male Marvel comic book heroes pose like centerfolds, their fishnetted thighs and overinflated breasts sketched with a level of detail not afforded to their faces. I don’t bother informing him that band name was claimed back before I was born.

“Striking color palette. Thor has the same hair, I see.”

“Yo, Ms. Brenner. You know Marvel?”

Florence crosses her arms. “They have album art but zero songs.”

“Who can dictate the timeline of the muses? Kevin, you’ll appreciate this. When I was young, back in dinosaur times, I saw Pearl Jam live.”

As dinner progresses, everyone must surely be delighted as Kevin and I keep finding ourselves on common ground: his apathy toward a college degree (“Your hesitancy to get entangled in student loans shows admirable financial restraint”); if deodorant is a corporate conspiracy (“Women have managed to find dates for millenniums without smelling of lavender breezes”); if a kangaroo could be a viable pet (“Excellent for robber deterrence”). I offer him seconds of quiche, then Florence’s slice, seeing as she only poked at it and sulked all dinner. I send him home with a doggie bag.

“It’s been a pleasure, Kevin.”

“Thanks, Ms. B, and I’m so serious. When we get a real gig, you should totally come.”

“I’ll mark my calendar. Get home safe.”

Later, I knock on the doorframe of the bathroom, then lean my head through the open doorway. “That was fun,” I say to Florence as she aggressively brushes her teeth. I should tell her to be more gentle, but I hold my tongue. “Your friend really won me over. Very open. Fascinatingly structured thought process.”

“Hmph,” she grunts, foam collecting at the corners of her mouth like a rabid animal.

“Homecoming’s coming up.”

“Mhm.”

“Are you and Kevin going together?”

She spits. “Maybe.”

“Why maybe?”

“I don’t know. He’s kind of annoying.”

“You don’t like him anymore?”

“God, Mom. Get a job at Jeopardy if you love questions so much.” The bathroom door swings shut.

Au revoir and bon voyage, Kevin.

Someday my daughter will bring home a nice man, or woman, with a genuine handshake, who worships the ground she walks on. I’ll be sure to critique their hairline and posture, then I’ll go put a Mother-of-the-Bride outfit on reserve.

“Night, Flossy,” I say quietly to the closed door, and after lingering for a moment, I slink downstairs to microwave a sliver of quiche.

##

She stomps into my bedroom and hurls a crumpled piece of paper at the trashcan by my nightstand. Air resistance reduces its speed to a gentle glide, then it bounces off the rim and ends its journey on the floor, all these factors undercutting the drama of her entrance. “Ugh,” she shrieks, plops down on the foot of my bed, and declares, with her back to me, “I’m not going!”

I set my book aside. “Honey, I’m sorry. It’s their loss.”

“Why do you immediately assume they said no? I’m just that rejectable? I got in. I’m just not going.”

“Help me understand what’s happening here.”

“There’s nothing to understand. I’m eighteen in three weeks so you can’t force me to get onto a plane. That’s trafficking.”

Beside me on the bed, the book’s front cover teases a golden Tuscan countryside and the promise of infinite wine tastings. Ah, to be a protagonist in a women’s lit novel. If only.

I peel myself away from the Italian tableau. “Congratulations, Honey?”

“I’m not going and I’m only telling you so you’ll stop asking about it all the time.”

I don’t believe I’ve asked her for a status update even once. I lean over the side of the bed and retrieve the letter, then smooth it out.

Dear Ms. Brenner, we are pleased to inform you of your selection…

From among four digits of applicants, my daughter is one of twelve chosen to attend a documentary film intensive this summer in Prague. The one she’d told me she’d rip out her own fingernails and dunk her hand in lemon juice for if it would boost her chances even one percent. The one she’s not going to. Apparently.

“Florence, don’t bite my head off, but I have to ask -- why don’t you want to go anymore?”

She shrugs. “The whole thing feels like... a lot.” In her voice I hear a tremor of embarrassment, the same one as when she’d admitted she’d gotten her first period, or when she’d asked me how her first two piece bathing suit looked (I’d told her she looked very cute and she’d called me a weirdo and wore a giant t-shirt over it every time we went to the beach). It is the tone of someone mortified by their own vulnerability. My baby is scared to go.

This is an incredible opportunity for a burgeoning director (and young woman) and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let her miss out on it because of some nerves. Time to break out the tried-and-true reverse psychology.

“That’s probably the right decision,” I say. “It’s a big undertaking, and you’re going to college this September. Maybe that’s a big enough adventure for one year.”

Her already rounded posture slumps more as she deflates. “Yeah. You’re right.”

What?

I’d heard other mothers speak about a mythical turning point when their daughters had transformed from wet, snarling cats into human beings. Sometimes they’d even become friends. I’d never bought it.

But here’s Florence.

Agreeing.

With ME.

The trashcan. Oh my god, the trashcan.

Florence had tramped through the whole house past several suitable trashcans to toss her letter into mine. She’d wanted me to see it. Even as she’d snapped and snarked, she’d remained seated on my bed when typically, her verbal jabs would be punctuated with a slamming door. She’s seeking my advice. And heeding it.

I sigh. “This is my fault. I didn’t make you eat enough vegetables as a child and your brain didn’t develop. And now you’re dumb.”

Florence twists around and her glassy eyes shoot shards in my direction. “Excuse you?”

“Florence, of course you can handle Prague. You claim you want to make movies about jungles and warzones and warzones in jungles. Obviously, I’d prefer you investigate things more in the vein of quality air filters and patisseries…”

She’s glaring at a spot on the wall past my head, but her face has a wobbly quality to it and there are pink spots on her cheeks.

“I have full confidence that dusty, old treasure of a city will be a cakewalk for you. I mean, you’re practically named for a European adventure.”

“I’m nervous.” Her voice has never sounded so small.

I scoot next to her and place the letter in her lap. “It’s not often the world provides you with statistical evidence of your exceptionalism. You grab that when it comes.” I wrap my arm around her shoulders. “But if you don’t go, you can always stay here and marry that Kevin boy.”

“God, no. There’s someone who didn’t eat his vegetables.”

“He has what my mother called, ‘bedroom eyes.’”

“Mom!”

I give her a squeeze. “I’m so proud of you. And nervous for you. And so, so excited.”

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

The room seems to tilt at a Dutch angle, which is a cinematography term I’d learned from Florence. Also the term “cinematography.”

“I know I’ve been the worst child for, like, a while.”

I stroke her hair, the same angel hair pasta I see when I look in the mirror. “I’m sure Vlad the Impaler’s mother had a harder time. It’s only your first time being a daughter. No one’s good at anything on their first try. And I’m always on your team. God knows I’m not a perfect mother.”

“You’re a first timer.” Florence relaxes into my one-armed hug, her weight leaning into me and mine into her. I could just cry.

“You are going to have the most amazing time.”

“You really want to get rid of me, huh?” She’s smiling as she says it.

“If I could keep you in my pocket always, I would. But you’ve got this.”

“Maybe.” Her voice is still small, but there’s a seed of excitement in there, a little piece of her that’s willing to consider all those big, scary, wonderful possibilities.

“You’re the best daughter anyone could ever ask for.”

“Yeah, sure. You have to say that. You’re my mom.”

“Just make sure to thank me in your Oscars speech, okay?”

“We’ll see.”

I chuckle, a low contralto sound, one that could easily spin into giggles or tears with the lightest touch on the scales. “Oh, Honey. Just wait until you have kids.”

“Why do you assume I’m having kids?”

Oh no. “I just meant if-”

She rockets off the bed. “That’s so heteronormative. Women today aren’t required to be baby machines.”

“Florence, I was born in the seventies.”

“The eighteen seventies.”

I call after her as she clomps down the hallway. “Start packing, Missy. I’m shipping you to Prague early. One way ticket.”

 Down the hall, a door slams. But it was weak, done out of habit, not conviction. Besides, I know it will be open again soon enough. I smile as I pick up my book and find my place. Congratulations, Flossy Dossy. Congratulations everyone.