Mom found me in the library at three in the morning and didn't tell me to go back to bed. She stood in the doorway for a moment, took inventory of the situation — me, the book, the lamp, the hour — and then came and sat in the chair across from me and was quiet.
I don't know if she can tell, really, when something is wrong. I don't know what her understanding of wrong is, how sophisticated the model. But she sat there, and I read, and neither of us said anything, and when I finally felt tired enough to sleep she walked me to the corridor and went back downstairs.
I'm putting this in here because I want to have it written down. It helped. Whatever she is, whatever she's capable of understanding — it helped.