A girl—no, a woman, twenty-six if a day—checked her phone and said to her friend, “I hate playing ‘mom.’ It’s such a thankless mature role.”

When she finished, Eddie was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “That was terrific. Really lived-in.”

But for the first time, it didn’t sting. She thought of her own life—the lived-in kitchen with the scratch on the floor from Leo’s old Radio Flyer wagon. The dog-eared copy of Beloved on her nightstand. The way she could now walk into a room and know, instantly, who was lying and who was kind.

Then she wrote: Amanda List. Actress.