8. Dear Kiddo, Take My Hand Into Darkness

The day I handed Mom what I thought was her thong, I might as well have handed her a live grenade with the pin pulled. Her eyes didn't just convey disgust; they communicated an entire narrative of disbelief, shock, and a dash of "What have I done to deserve this?" The thong in question was a vibrant shade of neon green, something you'd find in a glow stick rave or the underwear drawer of someone who's still living out their '90s grunge phase. Was it hers? Was this some elaborate plot to test my observational skills, or was Mom the master puppeteer of a psychological drama I hadn't signed up for?