My Evil Mother

by Margaret Atwood

She was neither tall nor short, neither plump nor thin. In everything, she took care to imitate the third choice of Goldilocks: just right.

“They may not like me, but they respect me. Respect is better than like.”

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.

I’d learned to be careful what I myself wished for, because whatever it was might materialize, and not in a form that fulfilled my hopes.

It’s old hat by now, of course.

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.