I hate being reminded of why I resent my mother. It's just so much easier to live in the illusion that everything is fine, and it takes weeks of pretending to forget it all over again.
This morning I woke up with the memory of a dress I loved but hadn't seen for a long time. I think I dreamt about it but I couldn't remember when I last wore it or where it might be now. I went through my closet, then mother's, then back to mine, but nothing. Mother has a way of being curious and asked me what I was looking for, so I told her.
Oh, that old rag, she said. I threw it away. I guess she saw that I got upset and said but darling, it was all worn out, and it wasn't even a nice brand.
I wanted to tell her that I didn't care about the brand, that it didn't matter if it was worn or torn or even unwearable. I loved it because of what it represented, for all the memories it carried, for who I used to wear it with.
I wanted to scream to her that a person like that must have no soul, but I was afraid she'd take it as a compliment.