It was a beautiful morning on the North Carolina coast, a perfect place to spend Thanksgiving. I was reading Clarissa Pinkolo Estes’ Women Who Run With the Wolves. The weathered wooden deck of the beach house overlooked a sparkling ocean. The water, speckled with surfers, glittered orange from the early sun. I sat on a bench, still clammy from last night’s rain, the crevices of the wood lined with green algae due to years of humidity. Every time I shifted, my pants absorbed more of the wood’s moisture, and every time the salty breeze blew, chills passed over me like the first symptoms of a fever. My mother sat behind me in a chair, probably wearing her purple jacket and probably covered with a blanket, but I can’t quite remember. And then I heard her.