My Evil Mother: A Short Story

My mother came as well; she was dressed theatrically in black, which by that time nobody wore to funerals anymore.

“The opposite of ‘mean’ is ‘doormat,’” she said.

She had a stash of such aprons, each with a seasonal theme—pumpkins, snowflakes—and at least five crisp, striped shirtwaist dresses.

I’d developed a habit of discarding them before they could do the same to me.

I didn’t want you to feel defenseless in the face of life. Life can be harsh. I wanted you to feel protected, and to know that there was a greater power watching over you. That the Universe was taking a personal interest.”

had one, too, though at that date I wasn’t sure this father was still what you’d call “alive.” When I was four or five, my mother told me she’d changed him into the garden gnome that sat beside our front steps; he was happier that way, she said. As a garden gnome he didn’t need to do anything, such as mow the lawn—he was bad at it anyway—or make an