Since “clotheshorse” was a term she’d used often, my father and my brothers were satisfied with the wording. But you and I both know my mother had never used the phrase as a compliment. She had used it to indict, to reproach. To point out another woman’s shallow ambitions, her foolishness. Maybe it was a lingering bit of adolescent rebellion on my part. Or maybe the sudden loss of her had briefly revived my childish sense of abandonment. Maybe I thought I was settling some score. It was a small betrayal, anyway. Petty. But one I wish
