I was 22 years old. I was in college. I was the editor-in-chief of the student newspaper. I loved it. And then I got sexually assaulted.
I was 15.
Mom was playing Solitaire on our old computer while I listened to music, which was one of our favorite ways to spend time together. At that time, I was utterly obsessed with “So Long, Astoria,” an album by The Ataris that had plenty of relatable songs for me to devour.
“This one reminds me of you,” I told her, turning the volume up as the first notes started playing.
Mom smiled, eyes still on the screen. “What is it about? What’s the name?”
“It’s called ‘The Hero Dies in This One,’” I said, holding the CD case up. “And I don’t know, some lines just remind me of you.”
She listened to it with me, her hand hovering over the mouse, not playing anymore. When the song ended, she smiled again, and looked at me.
“I also love you more than you will ever know,” she said. Then chuckled, and added: “Loser.”