Everything My Mother Taught Me

by Alice Hoffman

There are those who insist that mothers are born with love for their children and place them before all other things, including their own needs and desires.

She had ruined my father’s life, and mine, and she didn’t seem to notice. She was the sort of person who saw only herself and her shadow, and the rest of us disappeared in the bright sunlight.

“Did you want something?” she would ask. Yes, I felt like saying. A mother.

She had told me often enough to keep my mouth shut, and now I did exactly that. I abolished all language on the day of my father’s funeral.

When men were interested, they had a faraway look, as if they were trying to figure out their attraction. Was it a dream, or was it real? Did they want a woman, body and soul, or was it only the body that appealed to them? Sometimes it took them a while to figure it out, sometimes only minutes.

You could grow to love something so strong and elemental, but you’d have to value the beauty of it more than you did your own life.

I felt a sort of joy I’d never felt before. I was so unaccustomed to such emotions it took some time before I realized I was happy.

She was pretty, but you had to search for her beauty, which was hidden in her kind eyes.

She would have to do away with herself in order to have a life of her own.

I had honored my father and had done right by his memory, and now I was ready to speak.