My venue of choice for impressing other parents was always their dinner table. It was easy: I ate everything on my plate and usually asked for seconds, sometimes thirds. I tried everything, liked everything. Complimented appropriately. Didn't pick at or play with food. Sophie pushed her food around with a fork, leaving uneaten mountains of beef-a-roni on her plate. She took two to three sips of milk.

Sophie was my first best friend. Back then, having a best friend only meant having a foil for me to prove to my parents my own greatness and worth as a biological investment. If at first I wasn't their focus by choice, I was going to be.