I reached into my bag and pulled out an envelope, my acceptance letter folded up inside. “Well,” I said, tapping its short side on the table. “I signed it.” I felt a surge of fresh anxiety.

“Yay,” she said, halfheartedly. She sucked the straw in her drink; the last of the liquid rumbled as it gave way to emptiness. “Need me to mail it?” she asked. She had access to stamps on campus.

“Would you mind?” I said, sliding the envelope across the table. “By the way,” I said, shifting in my seat. “Guess who’s on her way to town?”

Anna hesitated for a moment. Then: “She is? Right now?”

I nodded. We both knew it was impossible to predict her visits. My mother was a consultant of sorts, a “cultural liaison,” which meant she was never tied to an office or location. “I bet she works for the CIA,” Anna would jokingly suggest.

“Where’s she staying?”

“I don’t think she knows yet,” I said. “But I’ll probably stay with her, at least the first night.”

This always annoyed Anna. “Isn’t that a little weird,” she’d asked several times before, “to share a bed with your mom when you’re in your twenties?” And I would assure her it was normal in our culture. But by now, she knew better than to address it.

As a consolation I offered, “Want to have dinner with her tomorrow night?”

Anna perked up. She’d been waiting for this invite for quite some time, and I was just as surprised as she was to find myself extending it. My mother had met Anna only once before; I’d introduced her as my “roommate,” and tried not to think about what I’d do if things got serious between us, never letting myself visualize our future, a family, anything beyond the present moment.

Ever since then, anytime my mother came to town I tried to hide her visit, which wasn’t easy to do. And if I failed, then I’d have to explain to Anna why she couldn’t join us. “I don’t get it,” she would say. “I’ve introduced you to mine.” This was true; I’d met her parents and entire extended family on numerous occasions. She’d introduced me as her live-in girlfriend and they seemed completely fine with it, which had always seemed very strange to me

Anna looked at me dubiously now. “Wouldn’t she rather meet your boyfriend?”

I rolled my eyes. “Stop,” I said. “You know I hate having to lie.” I’d invented Andrew, an imaginary boyfriend, to tell my mother about whenever the topic of relationships came up, which seemed to happen more and more often. I’d transposed Anna’s background and statistics onto him, in male form. “Are we ever going to get to meet this famous boyfriend of yours?” my mother would ask.

“Someday,” I would say. “He travels a lot for work.”

Anna now seemed faintly excited. “Are you—” She hesitated. “Are you planning to tell her about us?”

I thought about this. Was I? And why now? Why not now?

I told myself it was Anna who’d been pressuring me to tell her, though really it was me who probably wanted to. Guilt, for one thing, in both directions. I was tired of the weight that filled the air when the topic of my family came up. I was tired of deceiving my mother. Maybe telling her would precipitate something, some change, though I wasn’t quite sure what I felt was in need of changing.

“Yes,” I heard myself say. “I’m planning to.”

Anna touched my shoulder. “Then I’ll come,” she said.

My stomach dropped, air rising and then escaping from inside me. At the table beside us, a couple was discussing their daughter’s after-school pick-up plan. Anna checked her watch. “I’m going to be late,” she said. As she stood up to leave I found myself noticing her as if for the first time, her lanky figure, her pale freckled skin and short auburn hair. “See you tonight?” she asked. And then, before I could interject: “Oh, sorry, I mean tomorrow?”

Read the first chapter from You Exist Too Much by Zaina Arafat