“I’m sorry,” he says, holding the photo by the corner, as if it’s a bloodied rag. “Can you repeat that?”

“Oh you heard me,” his mom says, rolling her eyes and continuing to fold the laundry, like a fucking psycho. “Your father had a family, awhile ago.” She waves her hand, like she’s talking about the weather being too hot, too cold, and not that his father had a secret family he’d never spoken to him about.

“Awhile ago? Like how long?” He looks at the picture again and points. “That’s my fucking Walkman. She has a fucking Walkman—mom, who the fuck are these people?!”

She levels him with her best No-Foul-Language look, but if there was ever a time to indulge, he’s thinking it’s now.

“I cannot believe dad has a second family. Mom. MOM. Mom this is so not normal,” he lies on the bed staring at the popcorn ceiling. He’s officially pissed, because he’s been telling them to clean it off for years, but dad always said they could never afford it. Afford a second family though? That’s apparently within the budget.

“Yes well, he doesn’t exactly like talking about it. You know how your father is.”

He looks at his mother like she has twelve heads, and none of them have brains.

“Are you like, fine with this? I mean—mom, oh my god.”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”

“MOM. I think we’re beyond that.”

She’s about to protest, but he shoots up from the bed and shoves the photo in front of her face. “Mother. I have a half sister, and I didn’t even know about it. Literally this is the most insane thing that has ever happened to me and you are brushing. Me. Off. What am I supposed to do with this information?”

She shrugs. “Nothing. It’s not like life is going to change.” She presses his folded shirts into his hands and begins folding the underwear. Maybe that was the first sign of psychosis, he thinks. Folding underwear, who does that? Maybe it’s a coping mechanism.

She’s turned away from him, effectively shutting down the conversation, so he finally takes the hint and turns to leave.

Hand on the doorknob, he turns one last time to glare over his shoulder at his mother. “You know, some therapist is going to make SO much money off of me someday.”

“That’s fine,” plopping a pair of underwear on the pile with enough force to topple it. “Just don’t post it on social media. No reason we need to air our dirty laundry.”

He blinks.

He wonders if he has a chance in hell at being normal.