“Yeah,” I said. “We are. When you were my age, you already had a toddler—me—with someone you weren’t even interested in being with long term. I, however, am marrying someone I want to be with forever, and I have never not used birth control in my life.”

“Yes, Mia, I know,” my mother said, in a soothing voice. “You’ve always been my little worrywart. That’s why I love you. But I loved your father, too, you know. I still do. I wouldn’t want you to think that I didn’t.”

“Well, that’s just great, Mom,” I said. “So then why don’t you let me do the worrying about my own wedding? God knows it’s getting off to a rocky enough start. Wait . . . what did you say?”

“Oh, I think your wedding’s off to a fine start,” my mother said. “Michael asked you anyway, didn’t he? I didn’t manage to scare him off.”

“Not that part,” I said. “The part about you loving Dad.”

“Well, of course I love your father. I always have, and I always will. I just could never live with him. Could you imagine me, living in a palace?” She laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in the sound. “I’d make a terrible royal.”

“Uh,” I said. “I don’t know about that, Mom. I don’t think anyone could be worse than me.” I couldn’t help thinking about Paolo and his diamond shoe analogy. Would mine ever stop chafing?

“Don’t be silly, Mia. You’ve done an amazing job, what with bringing democracy to Genovia and building that community center for the kids and now choosing Michael as your prince consort. You’re the best thing that ever happened to that place, and I’m not just saying that because I’m your mother.”

“Aw.” It was silly, but this caused tears to well up in my eyes. “Thanks, Mom. You have no idea how much it means to me to hear you say that. But seriously, if I can adjust to being a royal, don’t you think you could? If you really love Dad that much—and I know he adores you—don’t you think—?”

“Oh, Mia,” she interrupted, in the old exasperated tone she used to use when she’d walk into my room to find me taking my temperature before school because I had a test that day and I was hoping I’d spontaneously developed malaria in the night. “Love is wonderful but it can’t solve every problem, you know. It certainly isn’t compensation enough for the fact that your father is a grown man who still lives with his mother.”

I winced. Mom had a point. “No,” I said. “I guess not.”

“I suppose I’m going to have to buy one of those awful mother-of-the-bride dresses for the ceremony,” she went on with a sigh. “Nothing kicky from my own wardrobe is going to work.”

“Um,” I said, remembering the last time Mom wore something “kicky” to a public function. She’d shown up at the opening of Mr. Gianini’s community center in a blue dress with a red petticoat, covered in purple roses. It had been Mr. G.’s favorite. “Absolutely. You can wear whatever you want, Mom.”

“Mia,” she said, laughing. “Of course I can’t. Your wedding is going to be broadcast all over the world. I may be a crazy painter, but I don’t want to look like one on your special day. I think I can stand wearing one of those stuffy mother-of-the-bride dresses for an afternoon,” she added, bravely. “It was the idea of wearing one of them—with panty hose—every day for the rest of my life that I was never able to stand.”

Which pretty much confirms both Tina’s and the Drs. Moscovitz’s theory.

“That’s very sweet of you, Mom,” I said. “But the whole idea was that Michael and I didn’t want you to have to wear one of those dresses, with or without panty hose. We wanted to have a small, informal wedding, no more than fifty people, no commemorative stamps of Michael—”

My mom laughed some more.

“Oh, okay,” she said. “Well, best of luck with that. Actually, I quite like the idea of a stamp of Michael.”

“I know, right? That’s what I said!”

I love Mom, but I worry about her. One of the things my stalker likes to harp on in his anonymous letters and e-mails to me (and rants on Rate the Royals message boards) is how women like my mom, who raise children on their own, are evil. His posts go on and on about how women like her (and me) are destroying the fabric of society by being too independent (because we have our own bank accounts, jobs, etc.), and how I should try to make Genovia more like the despotic nation of Qalif, instead of advocating for equal social, political, and economic rights for women.

If only I could find out who he is so I could have him imprisoned and/or publically humiliated, or at least tell his own mother on him.

•   Note to self: Remind press office to stop letting me read those letters. I would prefer only to read the nice letters I get from little girls who draw me pictures of themselves with their cats.

It’s too bad that Mom and Dad were never able to work things out.

But Mom really isn’t the panty-hose-wearing type, and unfortunately those are required for most official royal duties, especially when descending private-plane staircases in high winds while wearing dresses. Trust me, I’ve had this happen enough times in front of photographers to know.

UGH.

Of course neither my grandmother nor my father is answering their phones.

So now I am resorting to texting, which is bad because, considering all the messages I’m getting, my battery is completely dying.