Sad Janet: A Novel

by Lucie Britsch

He just meant what was I studying or watching on TV, but I asked him if he knew about FGM. He did not, so I told him. That’s enough now, Janet, my mother said, and my uncle said, It’s okay, I read somewhere that women need to speak now.

The first time my brother brought his new wife home for Christmas, he asked me if I was medicated yet. I said, You might have a wife now, but your sneakers are still shit. He cared about stuff like that, so it hurt. My mother said, Don’t listen to your sister, your sneakers are very nice, dear. His wife just stood there like, What the fuck sort of family is this?

My mother thinks I’m living a half life. Like I’m in the world but just barely. And she’s not wrong but she doesn’t understand compromise. She doesn’t see me at night, curled up in front of the TV laughing my ass off, or at work when I’m walking a dog I really like and it’s just the two of us striding out, not giving a shit about anything and I feel the closest thing to happy. I keep my joys small and close to my chest. I’m not trading them in for anything flashier, not anytime soon.

After dinner—and my mother’s customary warning that no one can help clear up, because playing the martyr is always her gift to herself—we

I bet she has a book on her nightstand because she wants to read but never gets around to it. Something with the word girl in the title, something some magazine said was the book to read.