“Mama, maybe you should fix your hair a little more… you look too old.”
“Mama, you should wear more perfume. Sometimes you smell like an old house.”
“That outfit doesn’t really fit this neighborhood.”
At first, I tried to laugh it off. I told myself she was stressed, overwhelmed, not meaning it. I went shopping and bought new clothes. I started showering twice a day. I even began avoiding eating near her because she said I made too much noise when I chewed.
But no matter how much I changed, it was never enough.
The warmth in her voice disappeared completely.
One afternoon, I was in the garden trimming the roses my late husband had planted when I heard her voice drifting from inside the house. She was on the phone with her friend Rachel in Chicago.
“I can’t stand living with her,” Sophie said. “She disgusts me. She feels like some strange old woman. The way she eats, coughs, walks… everything annoys me. But I need to stay here until I get a job, so I’ll just tolerate her.”
My hands froze.
The pruning scissors slipped from my fingers.
