Two days later, with Laura and our attorney sitting beside me, and with the legal consent required in our state to record it, I called my mother.

“Mom,” I said, keeping my tone light and relaxed, “tell me about Maya’s boyfriend again.” “He’s a delinquent,” Evelyn snapped.

“What’s his name?” A pause.

“I don’t know.

Brandon, or something.” “Last name?” “Why does it matter?” “And her tattoo?” “On her shoulder.” “What is it?” “A butterfly.”

Every single detail was invented on the spot.

There was no boyfriend.

There was no tattoo.