I was fourteen, and we'd gone into the gas station for drinks, but the gas station attendent (remember those?) was still checking the oil and cleaning the windshield on our old Ford Torino, so my mom and I sat in the car. I'm not sure what sparked the conversation, but somehow we started talking about my dad, and my mother's choices, and the regrets she had. It was a disquieting conversation, and an illuminating one; I understood my mother a little bit better afterwards, but myself and where I stood in the world much less. Nearly three decades later, I can only remember verbatim one sentence of the conversation—but I am still puzzling and considering it.