In a society so hell-bent on being individual, she fit her stereotype perfectly. She mastered the archetype in her walk: her hips swung to the beautiful-and-broken rhythm of women who craved a man’s hand on their waist—only to drive other men wild. Her mother had pre-ordained her fate since birth, watching Soap Operas that came on to entertain mothers wondering how they were going to pass the time between drop-off and pick-up, mothers who wanted so desperately to have some sort of action in their lives. Her mother purposefully gave her a name with too much power, pleading for an afternoon of beet red faced rage or heartfelt talks, but her daughter just swung her hips beautifully and brokenly into and out of the kitchen for obligatory dinners and discussions.
When the mother got older, she was put into a home, and was forced to sit in front of a TV all day and feel her eyes lose moisture as she watched Soap Opera marathons. And though she had never even come close to running a mile, she always felt tired after watching, like she had been sprinting all day and couldn’t calm down until she shut her weary, ironically indolent eyes. She thought her life was about her children, all of her children, but it was really about her.
She just wanted to be on a show that never got cancelled.