When I visit Mom for the first time over the weekend, she’s wearing jeans and a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt—and there’s no red bandanna in sight. It’s been almost two weeks since I’ve seen her, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. “Your head is naked,” I say, pointing to her blond curls.

Mom touches her hair awkwardly. “It’s part of my therapy. Not my idea, but if it helps…”

We’re in my room, sorting through last year’s summer clothes to give to Goodwill. Most of my stuff still fits, but a few of the T-shirts look like they belong on an American Girl doll. Some of the shorts too. Mom takes a too-small T-shirt from a pile on my bed and places it in the giveaway bag. “Aren’t you proud of me, Kit-Kat?” she says, gesturing to the bag at her feet. “I’m only tossing out the stuff you don’t want.”

Mom joking about her OCD = A very good thing.

Mom stops folding and sits down on the bed. She motions for me to join her. “I need to talk to you about something, honey.”

I sit down next to her. “Okay…”

“I never apologized for frightening you the way I did,” Mom says. “Or for hiding out in my room after I fainted. I should never have put you through that. It was wrong of me—and selfish.”

I feel my throat catch. “It’s not your fault, Mom. You couldn’t help it.”

“Maybe not,” Mom says, offering me a sad smile. “But no parent wants to cause her child pain. And my OCD has done that to you—I know it.” She reaches for my hand. “I don’t expect you to understand this completely, Kit-Kat, but I need you to try.” She pauses before looking into my eyes. “I’ve always been an anxious person, ever since I can remember. I was able to deal with my anxiety pretty well for years—and even downplay it, to some extent. But it’s finally caught up with me.”

I nod, letting her know it’s okay to go on.

“That’s why I couldn’t handle Clean Sweep, or the humiliation I felt afterward,” Mom says. “I felt out of control and incredibly anxious. So I shut down.”

I’m not sure what to say. I’ve never thought of my mom as an anxious person, just overly cautious about things—like making me wear floaties in the pool after I’d already learned to swim, or triple-checking my hair for lice after outbreaks at school. It was Mom just being Mom. But now that she’s admitting she’s always been anxious, her behavior kind of makes sense. “I think I get what you’re saying,” I tell her. “But isn’t it normal to worry about stuff that’s bothering you?” Like how I worry about Halle being my friend again—or how she couldn’t stop worrying about her crush.

Mom gives my hand a squeeze. “You’re right, Kit-Kat. Everybody feels nervous sometimes. But OCD goes beyond that. It’s an anxiety disorder, and the rituals you see me doing—cleaning obsessively, washing my hands—help me feel in control. I can’t explain it fully, but I know it’s not healthy. I’m learning new coping skills in therapy, though. Talking in Group helps too.”

Group, Mom explains, is basically a rap session without the talking stick. It borders dangerously close to dirty-laundry territory if you ask me, but Mom must think it’s helping her or she wouldn’t do it. Still, I’m surprised she isn’t embarrassed.

“Doesn’t it feel weird to talk about your problems in front of a bunch of strangers?” I ask, remembering how hard it was for me to share in rap session the first time, and later, during my jelly-bean sessions with Olympia.

“It was at the beginning,” Mom says. “But it’s gotten easier. I actually enjoy it now.”

I look at her in surprise. “You enjoy talking about your problems?”

Mom laughs. “Okay, enjoy is too strong a word. Talking about OCD is hard, and no one likes to admit they have a problem. But I think I’m up for the challenge.”

I smile. I couldn’t agree more.

—

Later that night Mom and I are playing Monopoly in the living room when the phone rings. “Ignore it,” I say, moving my thimble three spaces. “I just got out of jail.” But Mom can’t let a ringing phone ring, so she jumps up to get it. Before I can ask who’s calling, she’s taken the phone into the kitchen.

My mind goes into overdrive as I wonder what happened. Maybe Mom’s OCD is worse than I thought and she needs to go away for treatment. Maybe Dad is on the phone now, arranging to pick me up early so Mom can pack. But that’s not likely. Mom ditched her bandanna, and she’s talking in Group. That’s got to count for something.

While I’m trying to figure out why Mom would take the phone into the other room, she comes back and takes her place at the Monopoly board. She doesn’t look upset, though. She’s grinning.

“Who was it?” I ask.

“You won’t believe it.” Mom’s smile gets bigger.

“Tell me!”

Mom crisscrosses her legs. “Bing Monroe.”

Huh? “Why would he be calling you?” I ask.

Mom picks up the dice and starts fiddling with them. “He said he feels bad about what happened on the show and asked whether I’d like to return for another chance at the big money.”

Oh no. If Mom goes on Clean Sweep again, after everything she’s been through—after everything I’ve been through—I don’t think I could take it. “What did you tell him?” I brace myself for bad news.

Mom hands me the dice. “I thanked him for his offer but said I don’t have time.”

Relief hits me like a tsunami, until I realize Mom isn’t telling the truth. She has plenty of time. She doesn’t have a job, and I know she’s not cleaning or washing her hands as much. I can see it with my own eyes. Plus we’re playing Monopoly, which can take hours. The last time I played with Halle, we had to take snack breaks! I ask Mom to explain.

She holds up her hands and wiggles her fingers. “What do you see?” she asks.

I lean over for a closer look. “Your hands aren’t as chapped,” I say. “Or as red.”

“Exactly. Which means…”

“You’re not washing them as much.”

“And…?”

“Your therapy is working?”

Mom nods. “What else?”

“I’m not sure,” I admit.

“Therapy takes up a lot of my time,” Mom says. “Five days a week, plus every other weekend.”

“Which means you’re too busy to go on Clean Sweep,” I say, finally getting it.

“Bingo,” Mom says. “There’s a group for family members too, if you’re interested.”

I think about my jelly-bean sessions with Olympia, and about her book. “That’s okay,” I say, handing Mom the dice. “It’s your turn now.”

Mom looks at me and smiles. She knows I’m not talking about Monopoly.