Fireworks Every Night

by Beth Raymer

I didn’t know who was lying or who was telling the truth—I still don’t know.

I was noticing something about my mother: she was a victim, yes, but she also played the victim, even when she was the perpetrator. What do you do with someone like that?

Here was a woman in her fifties who had done unspeakable things to immediate family members. She had no contact whatsoever with either of her children. Her granddaughter was a teenager and she had yet to meet her. So much rupture, so much severing, yet she showed not an iota of pain, shame, or self-consciousness. She looked beautiful. And proud.