A Year Without Mom

Once, when I was very small, I bit my mom’s finger. This is where I live. My name is Dasha. I am twelve years old. My mom and I live with my grandparents-my mom’s mom and her stepdad-and our dog in a four-room apartment. I want a cat, but I am allergic, so we can only have the dog. We have always lived with my grandparents, even when my parents were still married. When my father moved to LA, I started sleeping in my mom’s room. When I was a baby I was sick a lot, and my mom stayed home with me-she was writing her dissertation on absurdist Russian poets of the early twentieth century anyway. I like the absurdist Russian poets-they are funny. After she finished her dissertation, my mom went to work as a copywriter at an advertising agency. She writes ads for places like Bread Factory #8. They give her fresh bread and she brings it home so we can all try it and say things like, “I can attest Bread Factory #8 produces an excellent product”. My mom really loves her job, but she always talks about how advertising in Russia isn’t so good. “I cannot write about bread factories for the rest of my life.” She says. “Now America-that’s what advertising is all about. She says this quite a lot, but I don’t really think about it until one night I overhear her talking to my grandmother. “She will be fine. We will take good care of her. You have to take this opportunity. “What’s going on? Are they talking abut me? Why do I need to be taken care of?