It sat on the dining room table for weeks, then a month, maybe two or three or seven. A form to be completed, along with all the other blank forms and bills. I shouldn't have been surprised then when the doorbell rang, the dogs began their warning, and I found a woman with a clipboard on my front stoop. The census. The questions. The family. But this family is a bit complicated.
“Two of us,” I tell her. “My son is Asian. My ex-husband, who is living in my family room, it’s a long story, is also Asian, different heritage. Well their half Caucasian. And my mother has taken over my bedroom, because she can’t go back to her home, another long story. She’s Caucasian."