For a novel class I'm auditing we're reading Rebecca Wells' Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. I'd seen the movie and liked it. However, reading this book at this time in my life, when I'm working on a narrative about my girlhood, my mother and the South hits very close. I was reading at school and I couldn't stop the tears sparking. I had to come back to the apartment. It just felt all too familiar. Not that my childhood was abusive in the same way as Sidda's was. But secrets surrounded my mother's depression. Like Sidda, no one sat me or my brother down and explained to us what was happening, why our mother was so sad, why we had to be sure not to make noise, why we had to be brave and good. And at the same time, I cannot imagine what my mother experienced. Surely she felt herself slipping, felt us slipping from her. I am sure she felt just as lost and lonely as I did. The truth is, I have never asked her. I have been too afraid to break her silence. I have been too afraid of that betrayal.