“We should talk.” My mother says this to me from where she sits tucked into the corner of the family room’s L sharped sectional. “It won’t be much longer for me. I want to make sure you have the opportunity to say anything that shouldn’t be left unsaid?” There’s a heaviness and finality to her words. “We’ve be talking our entire lives. There’s nothing we haven’t talked about or said to each other,” I calmly insist. I need her to believe this, so that no worry remains inside of her for me. And this is mostly true except for the parts of my life I edited from her knowledge before…