I go upstairs to ask my stepmother to drive me and my girlfriends to the mall, when I see it — see my precious little stepsister holding the fat red crayon, scribbling all over the brand new wallpaper that my stepmom just had to have to match the new "big-girl" bedroom set, see my stepmom with her arm curled back, about to whack her firstborn darling who she's always kissing and cooing at when she's not ragging on me to get off the computer and do my homework so I don't end up homeless, see my baby sister look up, her triumph fading into terror and then what looks like despair — and I am about to yell 'Don't!, but I don't, I don't say anything at all, just watch, hear the slap and then the wail, and know that now my sister knows what I know, that there are always limits and conditions, ways you have to measure up, parts of yourself you need to annihilate, and that even though she may throw herself in front of a train to save you, a mother's love isn't perfect and endless, and I know that now my stepmother knows, knows without question, that she is not the person she thought she was just a minute ago, and in another minute she will look over and see me seeing her, and I wonder when she does if I will be smirking, or crying, or just walking away.
Jeanne Holtzman is an aging hippie, writer and women's health care practitioner, not necessarily in that order. Her writing has appeared in such publications as The Providence Journal, Writer's Digest, The First Line, Twilight Times, flashquake, Salome, Hobart online, Hip Mama, Every Day Fiction and The Iconoclast. You may reach Jeanne at J.holtzman@comcast.net.