Each day she stood in front of me, preening and pouting, demanding that I make her something she was not. It wasn’t my fault. They say you can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear. And you can’t make a frigid stone beat.
She beat those children, pouring out inadequacies and hatred until they became what she was. She beat failure into her loved ones who became dependent on the very same men, working in the family business.
Yet she stood in front of me, day after day, demanding that I make her pretty before her next client called.