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respectable, so I figured the Jamie association would legitimate the imaginary roommates. But the lie didn’t matter, my mother wouldn’t have believed me even if it were true. Fortunately for all of us, she never came to my apartment. She rarely left Astoria, where the owners of the shops she frequented and the bankers who helped her save money spoke to her in Greek.
    My mother disapproved completely of an unmarried woman not living in her parents’ house, no matter how old she was. She had thrown a fit every time I brought up moving out, but when I’d finally had my fill of living in Astoria and sharing a home with her constant criticism, that’s what I did. I was twenty-six. I cried for two weeks in my new place. Jamie came over every day. I’m sure Armando was convinced he was living with a psycho. Logically, I knew I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but I felt just awful for leaving my mother alone. She didn’t speak to me for three months. Eventually she must have realized that without me, she was alone except for my father’s sister in New Jersey, because she began talking to me again. Ofcourse, she always made sure I understood I’d disappointed her. I placated her by going home almost every weekend.
    “ Nay, mama, I’ll be home.”
    “Bravo. I’m glad you’re not too busy writing about disgusting things.”
    I had made the mistake of showing my mother one of my earliest book reviews in a women’s magazine. Unfortunately the word sex was on the cover twice, along with a photo of an embracing couple. My mother never even got to my review. She dismissed my job as yet another disgrace.
    Jamie’s mom, Maura, once asked me if I thought maybe my mom was going through menopause. If so, it was the longest menopause ever. Maura also delicately broached the subject of my mother being mentally unstable.
    “Well, she has a right to be,” I’d snapped. “Her daughter is dead.”
    It was one thing to complain about your family, but it was another to let other people disrespect them. I couldn’t help being protective of my family, fuck-ups and all. My mother would be furious if I questioned her sanity; I knew that counseling was not an option for her.
    Sometimes I burst into tears when I got off the phone with my mother. Feeling a little sorry for myself made me feel a lot better. But, after this call, I worked for four straight hours on a piece for Breathe.
    The phone rang repeatedly as I tweaked the article, but I ignored it. When Armando woke up, I decided he should return some phone calls for a change.
    “I no know what I mus ask,” Armando pleaded.
    But I had decided to be immune to his charms this morning (well, afternoon). I just didn’t want to deal with anyone after talking to my mom.
    “Look, Armando. Find out if they smoke, if they have any crazy habits, what kind of hours they keep, et cetera. Pick five who sound nice, tell them to come for an interview tomorrow. Let’s just get this settled.” Even though I was comfortable having him make the initial inquiries, there was no way he wasgoing to do the interviews on his own. I knew he would be swayed by a pretty woman, they would sleep together, and we would be back in the same boat.
    “What about my Englis?”
    “You’re English is fine.” My parents pulled this too, when they were feeling lazy about things. An accent wasn’t a get-out-of-jail-free card. He had to pull his weight.
    I paid no mind when, minutes later, I heard his sighs as he paced his room yelling questions into the phone at perspective roommates.
    I decided to sneak out for an early dinner before he finished. This way, by the time I got back, he would be out at his job. One thing I really enjoyed about being freelance was the freedom. I had no real contact with the outside world for hours and occasionally days at a time, and I could have a sweet or savory crepe any time of the day without incurring disapproving looks from bosses or co-workers. If I failed to produce an article