Not long after starting therapy, my mom and nana came to visit me in New York City. I came home after a long, try-hard day at work, bearing bagels and schmear for the weekend. I opened the door to my studio apartment where all four of us (including my now-husband Sean) were staying. I said something like, “YAY! You’re here! I got bagels for tomorrow morning!” Without skipping a beat, my mom deadpanned, “What about dinner? We’re hungry.” This was the first time I’d seen her in six months. Over the course of that visit, Foxy (Foxy is the nickname for my mother that I use to minimize the emotional impact of her behavior—that’s marketing magic, baby) engaged in more conversations with strangers than with my nana and me. She ate grapes and threw the stems on my apartment floor (“Where am I supposed to put them?”). She offered to pay for dinner a total of zero times. On her way home, she called to say how much fun she had seeing the sights. This list of grievances could come off as petty.…