“Hello?” I say into the phone. “This is Frankie, how can I help you?”

“Oh God,” a woman’s shocked voice replies. “Frankie. It’s really you.”

“Who is this, please?”

“It’s… Mom.”

I stand there, dumbfounded. My mother, the one who left me and my five siblings six years ago. That mom. Joy.

“What do you want?” I ask. “Money?“

“No, no. I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“Me? I’m great. Fine without you.”

“I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday.”

“My birthday was three weeks ago.”

“I know. I was just working up the nerve to call you. How’s Chrissy? Jacob? Opal? Tyler? Norah?”

“Good,” I say, simply. “How’s Todd?”

“How do you know about Todd?” she asks, surprised.

“You didn’t expect Chrissy, your seventeen year old daughter who just started puberty when you left to not stalk you on social media? We all know about Todd. Wedding looked nice. Baby’s cute.”

“Thank you.”

“So when are you going to leave the new baby in the middle of the night without any warning?”

“Frank-“

“No. No excuses. Opal was just six months old. Six months. She doesn’t remember you. She never knew you. And me? I was seven when you left. Terrified. Vulnerable. Do you know how many times I needed a mom?”

“Plenty, I presume,” she said, embarrassed.

“Yeah.”

"I called for two reasons.”

“Nice,” I say, sarcastically.

“The first was to wish you happy birthday, the second was to invite you to Polly’s first birthday party next month.”

“Not interested. Who’s Polly?”

“My daughter.”

“Even less interested. Maybe if you’d come to any of the graduations or birthday parties that we invited you to, I might consider it.”

“I miss you.”

“That makes one of us. Dad got over it years ago, so did the rest of us. Except for Tyler. He never did.”

“How is he?”

“Dead,” I say, tears forming in my eyes.

She gasps on the other side of the phone. “How?”

“Suicide. Fell into a depression after you left. Thought it was his fault because you two had fought the day before you left.”

“No. No. It can’t be.”

“It can. We invited you to the funeral, too.”

“I got into the habit of deleting all of your father’s emails. I must’ve missed it.”

“I guess.”

There was a long pause.

“Could I talk to your dad?”

“No,” I say. “He doesn’t want anything to do with you.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I really am.”

“Great. Now show us that you are.”

I press the red “hang up” button on my phone, throw it against the wall, and cry.