IS THERE ANYTHING WRONG WITH WANTING ATTENTION?

“Attention whore.” “Thirsty.” “Starved for attention.” “Look at me.”

OK, I will.

A couple of years ago, my mom (who would be mortified if she read this, but fuck it, I’ve recounted worse) traveled back to Chicago to visit her family. When she came back, she told me about a group dinner she’d had with her sisters. One of her sisters— the blonde black sheep, a shambolic Stevie Nicks among PTA moms and tight wallets— disclosed during this dinner that she’d been physically abused by a partner decades ago. She’d never told anyone this before. “Wow,” I said, “That’s horrible.”

My mother rolled her eyes. “I thought it was silly of her to tell us. What’s the point of it now?”

I was like, Gee, I don’t know Mom, maybe it felt restorative? Healing? Freeing? Maybe she was just being vulnerable with her sisters, inviting you to link arms as you step into the bittersweet power of your crone years?

My mom shrugged. “It felt like she just wanted attention.”