On Sunday morning, Mom and I sat in the corner booth of Orem's Diner on Newbury Street. Joan had greeted us upon our arrival and knew better than to address Dad's absence. While I hadn't been to Orem's since February, Dad frequented this fine establishment every week as he was a creature of habit. Mom also happened to be a creature of habit, and had insisted on the two of us going to the diner before driving me back to Cannondale.

''So, how's the boyfriend?'' Mom asked, delicately stirring her English breakfast tea.

This was the first time that she'd mentioned Trip McKenna today. Our conversation had centered itself around NESCAC schools, my two prom dresses, and how I felt about her buying a new property on Nantucket.

I sipped my iced latte, willing the ice cubes to somehow yield more coffee. I didn't like the way Mom had phrased her question. She'd said the boyfriend instead of your boyfriend. I knew dropping the independent possessive pronoun was a deliberate and strategic grammatical choice. It eroded Trip's status and his significance. It made it seem like he wasn't mine.

''Trip's busy with AP exams and play-offs,'' I answered with a tight smile as I set down my coffee. ''Same as me. We have AP Gov on Tuesday.''

Mom stopped stirring her tea. ''Is that why you haven't gone out to dinner? It seems silly that you're not taking advantage of your proximity to all of your favorite restaurants in Boston.''

''I live at Cannondale, Mom,'' I said, enunciating each word. "I live at a boarding school that has very strict rules about when and with whom I can leave campus. So honestly, I don't know when you think I would've found the time and means to go out to dinner in Boston with my boyfriend.''

Mom pursed her lips and gave the faintest nod of her head, indicating that she thought I'd raised some decent points. But getting her to do that was only half the battle. "You settle for your little on-campus dates, then. That's sweet.''

I groaned and leaned back against the soft cushion of the booth. ''Did you just wake up this morning and decide to be condescending to your only child?''

"I want you to be having fun, Chandler. You're 16, and you need to have fun."

While Mom spoke in a very matter-of-fact voice, sincerity crept between the syllables, making me sit upright. I could probably count on one hand the number of times when Mom used the word fun in a context that wasn't sarcastic.

''What makes you think I'm not having fun?'' I asked.

Mom answered without hesitation, ''You called your father to pick you up from his house. It was an early night.''

''I wasn't feeling good."

''Were you drinking?''

''No.''

Mom arched an eyebrow.

''No, I wasn't drinking,'' I insisted. She should know I wouldn't ever risk drinking during lacrosse season. Not all of my teammates adhered to that principle, but I did.

''Okay,'' Mom conceded, and the sincerity I'd heard in her voice now appeared in her eyes. ''I'm glad you called your father, love. You can always call, no matter what time it is, and no questions asked.'' She paused, and I struggled to swallow. ''But you can also talk to us.''

''I know that, thank you,'' I forced the words past the knot of emotion starting to tangle in my throat.

Mom took a sip of her tea and returned it to the little plate it'd come with. ''Then is there something that you want to talk about?''

Conveniently, the waiter arrived with the bill, and I took that brief moment to decide something: I didn't know if I wanted to confide in Mom, but I was curious if I could.

Once the waiter left, I started from what I considered to be the beginning of the problem - Grayson telling me that Trip was on an academic scholarship, and that the McKenna's didn't have deep pockets. Mom didn't interrupt as I sprinkled relevant facts, including but not limited to Macallan punching Grayson in the face at Winter Formal, me refusing to tell Trip what Grayson had said, and that Trip's real name was William.

''He told you his name?''

''No...well, technically yes,'' I said, struggling to keep my narration linear. The minutes spent in Trip's bedroom blurred together, and I struggled to recall the order in which everything transpired. It crossed my mind that maybe I didn't want to remember. "He told me his name after I told him that I saw it on the back of the photograph. The one of him and his brother at Obama's victory speech in 2012.''

''Is he liberal?'' Mom asked.

''Yes," I nodded, "but he's not 18 until July so he hasn't registered..." I trailed off then shook my head. "Mom, this isn't relevant.''

''It is to me, but go on,'' she said with a flick of her wrist, her silver Cartier watch glinting in the morning light. ''Trip told you his name, but only after you initiated the conversation.''

''Yes.''

''How did he react?''

''I...I don't know.'' I sliced the remaining pierce pancake on my plate, unable to look at her when I told her what I actually did know. ''He got defensive. He told me that I should've asked him about his name. He told me I should've just told him everything.''

''He blamed you.''

I looked up and met Mom's piercing gaze. I got the sense she could somehow see right into my soul, where I had my insecurities laid out like fancy cutlery on a dining table. "He didn't say he blamed me.''

''People rarely assign blame so blatantly,'' Mom noted as she signed the bill in elegant, sloping cursive. She used her Maiden name now, Andrews. ''It can silent and intimate.''

Subtext slapped me square across the face. I'd blamed Mom for the divorce, and I'd blamed her a thousand times without ever vocalizing it. I had a lot of regrets about that.

A pause hadn't yet formed when Mom set down the pen and quietly cleared her throat.

''What else happened?''

''Well, we talked.'' I shrugged, hoping to convey some scrap of nonchalance. I didn't want to relive the emotions I'd wrestled with that night, terrified of what they might try and tell me. ''We talked about his name and about what Grayson said to me at Winter Formal. After that, he returned to the party, and I called Dad. I didn't want to stay any longer.''

Mom remained quiet for a long moment, her features revealing nothing about her thoughts. I wondered if my poker face was even half as good as hers.

Finally, she nodded. ''Thank you for talking to me, love. Relationships aren't ever easy, especially when you're so young and on different paths.''

''Trip and I aren't on different paths. We're in love.''

As soon as the words left my mouth, I braced for Mom's response. I expected her to refute my claim, to tell me I knew absolutely nothing about love. But she didn't.

Instead, Mom smiled and reached across the table to lightly squeeze my hand. ''I want you to give yourself some grace, Chandler. Don't shoulder blame that isn't yours to carry. You also know that feels like, and for that I'm deeply sorry.''

I didn't know precisely what blame Mom was referring to, but I felt the weight of her words nonetheless. It was easy to blame Mom for all the things I'd blamed her for, but it was hard to pinpoint what I blamed myself for. I blamed myself and I was intrinsically guilty over that.

"I just don't want to feel guilty anymore," I admitted. I wasn't sure if I'd vocalized my guilt to my friends, at least not directly, but it felt okay to say it now. It felt okay to say it to Mom.

"Guilt is like a ghost," she told me. "The key to living with it is knowing when to let it haunt you or try to put it to rest."