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They’re still doing it, I’ve discovered. Or rather, my mother is still doing it.
“But I’ve never been to your site,” she protests. “Just like you asked. I’m only reading where you’ve been quoted and what other people say about you.”
“Then stop,” I growl through the phone. “Stop tracking it down. Stop googling. Stop reading the bits and pieces other people quote. Just stop.”
She can’t help herself, she tells me. She’s so terribly worried about the risks I’m taking with my life that she’s compelled to nose around, even though she knows she shouldn’t.
I’ve got enormous potential, she tells me. I could touch hearts, she thinks, or change lives. I could have people all over the world reading me, if only I focused on the topics of children and family and motherhood.
“So you are uncomfortable with the fact that I talk openly about sex,” I ask, though of course I know the answer without asking.
“There are some things that should stay private,” she whispers. “Sex should be private. And sacred. I’ve showed some of your writing to your father, but there’s so much I’ve hidden from him. He couldn’t handle reading it.”
Whose fault is it that you have to hide it, I think but do not ask.
After eighty (yes, eighty) unproductive minutes on the phone, the discussion is tabled. She wants us to seek “professional help” for this issue, she says, and I realize that now I know another reason she’s so keen on herding me to a Christian counselor. She wants that person to fix me.
This shouldn’t bother me. It shouldn’t matter that according to my mother the only thing I’m good for — in terms of writing, at least — has to do with the children.
Eh, who am I fooling? Her preferences extend beyond what I write. She’d very much rather that I concentrate on children, home, and finding a decent job, perhaps (once again) as a teacher. Maybe her scheme includes me dating someone. ONE someone. One male someone. And not putting out ’til he places a ring on my finger and promises to take care of me forever.
Because that’s what a good girl would do.
Unfortunately I’m not a good girl. I’ve never been much of a good girl, even when I acted like one. It must be horribly disappointing to her that I’ve turned out like this, and that there exists a visible record of how far I’ve strayed from what they hoped.



