“I’m not fit to be a mother.” Finally it was out. Finally people knew. It was almost a relief. “Oh, honey. She’s alive, she’s plump, and she’s got lungs to tell the whole world how much she hates strawberries. You’re doing fine. I don’t know what lofty ideal of motherhood you were sold, but let me tell you: there isn’t a mother born who doesn’t want to drop her two-year-old out a window from time to time.” She sounded so unworried, as if it were nothing for a mother to have such thoughts.
