Messy mothers can make you feel better. The kind that make you think: in comparison, I’m doing just fine. Years ago, at a library event, a librarian told me she bought my second novel The Comfort of Lies for her mother — for Mother’s Day. I did not say (though it nearly killed me to hold the words in): “Great! Nothing says Happy Mother’s Day like cheating, rage, and hating being a mother.” But honestly? That’s exactly the kind of book I want — the truthy ones that make me feel a bit superior. At least I’m not doing that! Not Little Women. No thanks. No one wants Marmee on Mother’s Day. I refuse to be compared to a saint before brunch. What I want is a gift that says: Dear Mom, This woman is a disaster! You are doing GREAT. Love, Your not-totally-wrecked kids