Sure, I had been snatched up from her womb, I went to camps in various states. I was an unaccompanied minor in plane rides to lands I’d never known. But here I was, with paper-thin walls and two wooden doors between us; I was worlds away from my mother.

Oh, but the guilt that came with it. I finally got what I wanted: my own room, freedom to speak with who I want, whenever I want. I had privacy. I kept to myself. I was having a blast. Or at least I thought I was. Until I realized how quiet it was. How little she cared. Here she was and I was supposed to dread her pestering. But no. I dreaded her lack of it. She was depressed.

I’m not sure how long she’s been this way. At home, I can hardly tell because I’m normally consumed with homework and talking to my boyfriend. My social and scholarly life sucks me out of the household, and I’m wired up like some vegetable specimen to this piece of crap laptop. It’s a great laptop, but I end up a slave to it quicker than my mother can call my name.

So while I’m on this computer, typing away at my latest assignment, I realize she hasn’t told me to go to sleep. She hasn’t asked, “Are you doing your homework?” She hasn’t even looked at me with the slightest bit of scorn at my carelessness to the rules. Even worse, she hasn’t said good night.

I’m not sure who’s broken off from the rest of the world: me or her? Has her depression consumed her like my dependence on electricity consumes me? Has she given up because I’ve become so absorbed in my addiction to Internet? It’s sad how I can favor spending time on this piece of ephemeral equipment over spending time with my grandparents, the creaking and aged family members that I may not see next year, if things go horribly wrong. I have the capacity to choose machine over human.

Where did my soul go?