Barb’s Reviews > Partita > Status Update

It's a pretty thing to picture, mothers and daughters shopping for a special dress. We weren't that picture. I didn't go to prom, had no perspective or interest.

Sorry, he'd apologize, and I knew he really was. Sorry, always, for that taking me back to her.

But what was motherhood to me? The sting of a damp hand on a cheek. Or words, of the kind that can sting parts of a child more tender than flesh.

A child can't hate her mother without putting the load- bearing walls of the known world at risk. I settled for hating her shoes.

We all know eleven-year-old girls, with their wide eyes and sincere belief that every terrible thing that happens is their fault. Except for the carefree few who think nothing is.