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destroyed most recently.
    I wondered for a moment if any enterprising soul at Gawker Media or one of its competitors had thought to contact Mother directly, and then said a brief prayer on behalf of anyone who would be so foolish as to try.
    I spent the better part of the afternoon wading through social media sludge as best I could until I determined that there wasn’t anything I needed to do but wait for the entire mess to blow over. I took a hot shower, put on comfortable clothes, and tried as best I could to steel myself for the long car ride down to Cape May.
     
    “You did bring a nice dress?” my mother asked.
    We were stuck in traffic on a bumpy two-lane highway leading south out of Princeton. I was driving with the top up against the late-March chill. It would be a long ride, and I wasn’t in a big hurry to hear the long and sad story about how my mother had stepped on Sheldon Berkman’s black little heart. I was in even less of a mood to hear her carp about my shortcomings, fashion-related or otherwise.
    “I have an adequate wardrobe for funerals,” I said.
    “I imagine that you do. Is that what you would call an occupational hazard?”
    “Not at all. I want my clients to live long, productive lives, so they can change their wills every other year or so and I can bill them for it.”
    “I see,” she said. “Dead clients pay no bills.”
    “Ideally, they don’t pay taxes, either.”
    “Don’t remind me, dear. All I wanted was to make sure that you didn’t wear that dress you wore to your cousin Alicia’s wedding.”
    That had been a black chiffon number with a deep neckline with a bow placed strategically to keep it decent. I will admit that it was form-fitting, but I was dressing to impress my date. Rodrigo was the assistant director of the Argentinian mission to the U.N. and was the heir to a large mining fortune. He had long, flowing black hair, an exquisite accent, and soft, supple hands. He tried to show me the basic steps of the tango, and after the reception, I showed him some moves of my own. It was a very romantic evening, and a very romantic morning after that, and it all would have worked out perfectly if he hadn’t turned out to be a sexist cretin who didn’t think that women should be allowed to practice law.
    “I have a very nice, conservative outfit,” I told my mother. “It’s a very dark charcoal suit. Perfect for funerals.”
    “Let’s hope we just have one, then.”
    “That would not be my preferred way to spend the weekend, no.”
    “I never thought about this,” she said, “but you didn’t have any other weekend plans, did you? I do hope I’m not impeding your social schedule.”
    This was her way of asking me if I was dating anyone. I figured I would get static from her on this topic during the trip, but I had at least hoped that she would have waited until we were on the other side of Trenton.
    “Why do we have to do this?” I asked. “Why can’t we have a conversation like nice, normal people?”
    “Several reasons. I want to know certain things about your life that, for some reason, you are determined not to tell me about. Asking questions is a good way of finding this information out.”
    The car ahead of me finally made the left turn it had been signaling for the last half mile, and I hit the accelerator. “You could just wait for me to tell you.”
    “And die of curiosity? No, thank you,” she said.
    “I thought we had this whole discussion just the other day, about how I was a grown-up now and you were going to start treating me like one.”
    “Part of being a grown-up is engaging in grown-up activities, which includes romantic relationships. I am just inquiring as to your progress in that area. It’s not a criticism, sweetheart.”
    “It is too a criticism,” I said. “You’re not asking me about my career, or my accomplishments, or my goals. You’re asking if I’m seeing anybody, and if I am going to get married anytime soon. And I refuse