Old Babes in the Wood

by Margaret Atwood

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.

It would be impolite to notice the unicorns out loud, Myrna decides.

“Polarizing? Praise the lady lord I no longer toil in the groves of academe,” says Leonie. “Reign of Terror in there.”