“Narcissist.” An ugly, nasty word, almost an onomatopoeia, hissing of insidious things

The ironic part of the entire thing is that Ma came specifically because she wanted to be with us for her birthday.

No. Not ironic. “Ironic” means “happening in the opposite way to what is expected and typically causing wry amusement because of this.”

This, in fact, aligned perfectly with everything Ma is, and it wasn’t all that amusing.

Since I was born, it was a point of pride that I shared a birthday month with Ma. We were the only ones in the family who were January babies. The shared birthday month was always our point of connection, one that I wore like a pearl choker in my youth — an adornment at first — and then as I grew larger, a noose. I was her birthday present, she told everyone with swagger.

I only realized in retrospect what my discomfort was born of: even my day of birth was centered around her.

Years later, a therapist put a label on Ma: “narcissist.” An ugly, nasty word, almost an onomatopoeia, hissing of insidious things.

Did that explain the flip-flop from charming woman to raging tempest? The plans that shifted on a dime, regardless of whom it affected, because it no longer suited her? The decisions and rules that changed based on her wishes and fancies at the moment? The fact that she had zero ability to think about another’s perspective?

Stepping gingerly on eggshells was how I learned to walk. I was certain others had the same experience.