rose lalonde, squatting like a gargoyle on top of the kitchen island, dual wielding spatulas and wearing over twelve thousand dollars worth of custom tailored children’s clothing: Mother, what were the circumstances of my birth? Were you left by a particularly wealthy husband who happened to not know of my existence and would earnestly take full custody if he knew he had a daughter, or am I merely a fry of fornication that you keep around out of spite?
mom lalonde, perched on top of the refrigerator and eating leftover sweet and sour chicken with only a carving knife, maroon lipstick smudged across the blade: ur adopted
