But flowers and animals and birds are ‘pretty.’ You call your mother, your sister, your daughters ‘pretty.’
I’d never realized that word could mean so little until it rolled so dispassionately off his tongue, but now…
I don’t think I want to be ‘pretty.’
Wheeling myself to the bathroom, I get the brush and arrange my hair in the mirror, reminding myself of the way Mom used to come into her office after the worst days imaginable, fix her hair in her little compact mirror as if nothing else in the world mattered and then say to me:
“Well, my little angel, what are we upset about? There’s nothing to be upset about is there? Let’s smile then, yes? No need to be gloomy.”
