My Evil Mother

by Margaret Atwood

You’re so evil,” I said to my mother.

“Yes, I’m evil, as others might define that term.

But I use my evil powers only for good.”

She looked like a dependable mother from a respectable neighborhood such as ours.

“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.

good is good for you, my treasure.

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

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

“Appearances can be deceptive.

“Some people collect stamps, she collected penises. Many of us did in those days. Anyway, he consulted me—through a clairvoyant, of course, as I was no longer in that earthly incarnation.

“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.

And so I come to the end. But it’s not the end, since ends are arbitrary.

What’s pointing?”

“It’s a hex thing,”

Witches can see things at night that other people can’t see. Dead people, for instance. If you’re not instructed and prepared, it can be scary.”