I'm Louise, not "grandma". Thank you very You might as well call me -some pathetic old hag- — which I kind of am, but still, no need to be rude. That's my job. Besides, how do you expect me to believe this world is real when you're standing there talking to your imaginary boyfriend? I'm done with all these damned made-up storylines!
— I blocked out her whole rant, focusing on the camera and my need to speak with the man I loved. — So… what kind of music do you like? Anything! As long as it's not that horrible indie crap at those hipster clubs full of mustached dorks and their suicidal girlfriends.
Oof. That stung. Especially because Erich and I used to love those gigs — weird, overlooked bands barely making rent, playing like the world was ending. But maybe this old bat (ugh, again!) was right. Maybe Erich had had enough of silence and needed a blast of noise.
M.K., still sitting under the table, perked up when he saw me tapping my foot with excitement.
Earlier, I'd noticed a flood of promo posters around town — some saccharine R'n'B guy was playing tonight. A big deal. Stadium-level. Grammy-stuffed. The United Center had ditched the sports banners and gone full concert mode for him.
Please let there still be tickets… Time to check the site. Boom — two left.
And big bold text: No dogs allowed.
Great. M.K. was the start of all this. He is the story. Not a side note — the actual backbone of my relationship with Erich (clunky as that sounds).
The dog raised his shaggy head and stared right at me — and through his eyes, I swear, I saw Erich. That was all I needed.
I need to go to Erich's parents'. Coming? — I snapped at Laura, who perked up
Thank God! We're finally leaving this snore-fest. Let's roll! Did you get the ticket?
Her eyes glazed over, and her face fell slack. Once again, she dropped out of reality and started mumbling under her breath, whispering to her long-lost lover. It stabbed me deep — the way I saw myself in her. Both of us chasing ghosts.
Shaking off the shiver, I ordered a cab, and we headed to my parents' house — a place I avoided for good reason. Toxic mom levels: maxed.
I asked Louise to wait outside with M.K., then poked my head inside to visit the folks — and got an earful right out the gate about how I looked -worn down,- complete with judgmental commentary on my under-eye bags.
You've completely stopped taking care of yourself, young lady! — Mother declared with zero compassion. And wow, that hit like a truck. But I had a mission — and no tantrum from her was gonna stop me. Look at what you've become! You don't even go to work And yes, being a seamstress isn't glamorous, but it's better than no job at all. You do realize you're about to be fired, right? And this phone business — filming everything likes some wannabe influencer? Please tell me you're not planning to humiliate us by becoming a blogger now?!
Dad looked down at the floor. He agreed with her. And it broke him a little.
I needed a distraction. So I aimed my next words squarely at him:
My Father, (Yeah, we talk like that — proper formal. Don't ask.) Could you reach out to your friend at United Center and get me backstage access to the singer performing there tonight?
What he did next… caught me off guard.
I was bracing for a fight, but he just nodded and quietly pulled out his phone, texting someone right away.
My mother, ever the opportunist, took the chance to flash me a rare -smile- (if that's what you call the thing her face did).
Now that's Finally some initiative. No use crying over that… unfortunate person in that unfortunate state. You're doing the right thing — concerts are good for your nerves. Maybe you'll even start dating again! Why not?
Question: how many humiliations am I supposed to endure? Answer: apparently, infinite.
Focus on meeting the singer. Focus on the plan — I kept telling myself, burning a hole in her with my glare.
She, of course, was unfazed. She casually delivered the final blow:
You'll sit with us, have some tea and We've got a free day — perfect time for a proper family chat. — And just as I opened my mouth to object, she added — Oh, and remembers: any favors can be… revoked.
What kind of demon even births like this? How did I crawl out of that? Hey, Universe — you there? You messed up real bad!
Naturally, there was no reply. The old universe was probably still sending replies via Morse code. Meanwhile, Mrs. Bingles was already dragging her daughter to the tea table.
Outside, Louise and M.K. were still waiting. Thank God it was warm — they could at least walk a bit and not get bored.
Dad collapsed into his chair like a war hero and went right back to waging his epic text-battle with the stadium admin, hammering out the details. Meanwhile, the woman known as my mother slammed a kettle on the table big enough to hydrate the entire Namib Desert. She shoved a bowl- sized cup toward me, plus a plate stacked with about a million ounces of cream-filled pastries. What was I, a black hole?
Eat up, young You've withered down to nothing.
I had paused the camera earlier, but now I restarted it. Erich always said my horrible mother had a weird influence on him as a kid — well, now he could see his childhood icon in all her glory.
I got up and propped the phone on a spare chair — those were taller than me, unlike some of us — to frame the whole table. Dad was too busy sending emojis and stickers to notice, but Mother clocked it immediately.
What kind of circus act is this supposed to be? Care to explain, miss?
I could've lied. But I didn't. I wanted to provoke her, to show her the exact lengths I was willing to go for Erich. So I gave it to her straight.
That's right, He's -sitting- in that chair. It's called creating the illusion of presence. Her face did a full mood ring: red, yellow, and purple— the whole spectrum. She hissed: Delvin! DELVIN! This needs to stop! Can't you see? The girl needs serious help — proper meals, vitamins, a therapist, and — I emphasize possibly — a rehabilitation center! I'm not a drug — I was genuinely stunned. That was her gameplan for saving me? Why not throw in the UN, the Red Cross, and M.K. while she's at it? What's the difference?! — She fired off this blast like it came from a — You're clearly unwell, and you need help. That's final. Delvin?
But Dad, miracle of miracles, ignored her. He just turned his phone to show me the reply from the admin:
-All right. Tell her to come an hour before the show. I'll meet her at the backstage door.-
I thanked him with an unthinkable gesture — a kiss on his cologne-drenched cheek — then stood, bowed slightly toward my stunned mother, and said:
Thank The cookies are great. The tea, too.
Wait — where do you think you're going, young lady?!
To film my
I grabbed my phone and bolted out the house like it was radioactive, feeling genuinely nauseous. That place was poison. And I used to be part of it — just another piece in that toxic furniture set. But not anymore. I was trying to burn off every bit of that bitter, stunted past. The whiny, self-hating girl I used to be.
Okay, okay — enough self-roasting. Focus. There they were — my crew.
Louise was leaning against the fence, fingers steepled like a movie villain, peering through the triangle they formed. I had to shake her back into the now — she was muttering and shivering.
That couldn't have been his motorcycle! No — don't run me over with it! Nooo!
Another episode. Great. Time to wait it out. M.K. was sniffing through a flower bed like it held ancient secrets, but I called him over:
Come here, We're going to a concert tonight, and you're gonna love it more than anyone in the crowd. I promise.
Where are we going? Why? — Louise blinked and
Just like we planned — a But now we've got a backstage pass. We'll get to meet the artist in person. — She approved like I'd asked her for permission. — Maybe you're not totally hopeless after all. Let's go do some window shopping, kill time.
Deal. Seemed like a good way to burn the gap before Showtime.
We took off walking, and I kept filming — dropping in little lines for Erich, like:
Remember this street, Big Er? We danced here one night when we thought no one could see We were so naive.-
Or:
Right there — that's where I told you I was gonna become a Then we bought half the craft store together.-
Louise kept sighing, rolling her eyes, grunting — every noise in the passive-aggressive orchestra. Finally, I turned to her:
You got a problem?
I told you — you're talking to a He's not gonna answer. You could sit by his bed all day telling these stories, and he'd still say nothing.
Politeness kept me from telling her to shove it in language that would really land. I knew she was unwell. But damn if those words didn't hit all the soft, bruised parts in me. So I replied:
You know, it's kinda rich hearing all this from someone who believes this whole world's just some dumb fictional setting written by a guy who pens air freshener ads. Like they don't all smell the same Maybe try a different argument next time — or read literally anything that's not an ingredients list for salad.
The scoreboard flicked from zero to one. Round won.
But… won from who? Was this really a victory?
See, Nibi? — She said, voice oddly calm — You're pushing back so hard, trying to make me look crazy, just to deny your own doubts. You want me to carry the burden of this world's fakeness. You think I'm strong enough for that.
And I am. My shoulders are made of tungsten. I've survived worse. But even I can break, someday.
Her voice changed, eyes swimming with something close to panic. I couldn't bear it. I turned to
M.K. and started babbling nonsense at him, just to drown it out.
She was starting to scare me. I was starting to regret bringing her along. But… Erich would've been fascinated. No way she was this outrageous back in the day.
We finally reached a stretch of stores, flashing with every kind of sign you could imagine — neon screams clashing with hand-painted leftovers from the '60s. The whole city in font form. Legal stuff, of course. Probably.
I scanned the shops, wondering where I'd have gone with Erich. Then one sign stopped me in my tracks: