I’ll ask if it hurts. Pretend the answer is yes. Pain that bites you to the bone and makes you want to pick up the phone and call your mom and beg her to let you come home. But she hates your guts for looking so much like your father and not once did she ever kiss your skinned knees let alone try to mend your broken heart.
But when the answer is no, I’ll smile and say, “Okay,” because love makes you do funny things like that.