She sighed and smiled at me, one of
those rare smiles, all soft and forgiving. "I raised a good
daughter," she said, with an air of finality. She turned
back to the sink, and was once more lost in her own world of
picket fences and trimmed hedges and the color yellow and what
the neighbors may or may not be doing with the other neighbors.
My mother hid in her dreams the way I would hide if someone broke
into my house. With held breathe and big eyes and every part of
my soul praying that things we be okay. And who was I to come
barging in, opening whatever cabinet or closet that hid her
safely away? Because you can't tell your own mother
that's she is wrong about her daughter.
Honestly, she didn't raise a
good daughter.
She just raised a good
liar.
