I’m 38 and I noticed last summer that my parents only ask about logistics — the drive, the weather, the dogs, the job — and never about how I actually am, and I realized I’d been answering questions about the surface of my life for so long I’d forgotten what it felt like to be asked about anything underneath
I drove to my parents’ house last summer for a long weekend, and somewhere on the second day I noticed something I’d been not-noticing for about thirty years. It was the Saturday morning, in the kitchen. My mother had asked me how the drive had been. I told her. Then she asked ab…