I am Veda in the way that I too can never have enough,
although it is not money, fame, or class that I crave.
It is love,
and I feel so weak because of it.
And you Mildred, you are weak too.
You knead your warm hands into brown pie crust instead of my heart.
You wash away the pesticides on vegetables instead of my hair.
You abandon me for Monty, and throw shiny, pretty things at me to buy my loyalty. Monty bought my loyalty as well. But when you went broke he disappeared, and so did you.
Too guilty to love me, too guilty to hate me. I mirror you, and you mirror me; it’s nobody’s fault.
All the girls in our family are doomed to have this fate tattooed on their foreheads.
Mothers who live for their daughters, daughters who live for their mothers; both hold on so tight they suffocate the other. Both live for her and not themselves.
The only thing deeper than love is pain.
There is no love between Mildred and Veda because love is not a strong enough word to define the bond between a mother and a daughter.
If love isn’t destructive and terrifying or filled with resentment, then there is no love.