My Evil Mother

by Margaret Atwood

My mother had a thing for blue in tableware; she said it warded off any evil eyes intent on ruining the food.

Single strand of pearls, wild, not cultured. (Worth it, she said: only the wild ones had souls.)

“Why would I care about the tittle-tattle of the uninformed? Ignorant gossip.”

“They may not like me, but they respect me. Respect is better than like.” I disagreed. I didn’t care about being respected—that was a schoolteacher thing, like black lace-up shoes—but I very much wanted to be liked. My mother frequently said I’d have to give up that frivolous desire if I was going to amount to anything. She said that wanting to be liked was a weakness of character.

“The opposite of ‘mean’ is ‘doormat,’” she said. “When you’re tidying your room, don’t forget to collect the hair from your hairbrush and burn it. We wouldn’t want anyone malignant getting their claws on that.”

I certainly didn’t want any pointing going on; pointing was how you directed a spell.

Why had my father abandoned me? If he was still alive, why didn’t he at least write to me? Hadn’t he loved me even a little?

“It’s hard living with someone who’s always right. Even when it turned out that she was. It can be . . . alarming.”

“You were such a sensitive child. So easily wounded. So I told you those things. I didn’t want you to feel defenseless in the face of life. Life can be harsh. I wanted you to feel protected, and to know that there was a greater power watching over you. That the Universe was taking a personal interest.”

The protector was her, the greater power was her, the Universe that took an interest was her as well; always her. “I love you,” I said.