“I don’t know how to answer that,” she said, and there was a long silence. “Angry? I don’t know what it would mean to be angry with my mother. That wasn’t possible for me then. I still can’t imagine what it would be, to feel anger toward her. I was angry with my father, for talking to me about her that way. That was easy. But my mother? She made me suffer. But being angry would have meant believing she could change.”
