The Keeper of Happy Endings

by Barbara Davis

When so much has been uprooted—so many things lost—one must seek comfort in rituals. Even the sad ones.

Alas, we women seldom get the life we would choose for ourselves. Instead, our lot is chosen for us, by those who claim to know best, and before we know it, we’ve been shaped into someone we don’t recognize, remade in someone else’s image.

I feel her anger in my bones, the tug-of-war between mother and daughter. It’s a clash as old as time itself, for there have always been mothers who knew best. Just as there have always been daughters who knew better. It’s a contradiction that is part of every woman’s journey—the need to shape in one’s own image versus the aversion to being shaped at all.

But I’ve come to believe we create our own curses and carry them through life because we’ve been told it’s our lot. We’re taught to relive our mothers’ heartaches, to accept their sufferings as our own, and pass them on to the next generation, again and again, until one of us at long last says no, and the curse is finally broken.