This is not going to be a letter thanking you for all your effort. Nor is it going to be an apology for not listening to you sooner. This is a straight-up demand.
I’m need to know which gods you prayed to when I was being headstrong and stubborn. I need to know the specifics; how often, when, what animals you sacrificed. All those requests you offered up that I have a child just like me; well, Mom, congrats. They delivered. I have a child just like me.
How did you not murder me?
I just spent an hour convincing your granddaughter that she has to do her homework. There were tears over every single question. There were 23 fucking questions. She knew the answers, she just didn’t want to write them down. Because she doesn’t like writing. Also, pencils suck.
That seems familiar. I did that too.
I put her laundry in her room and kicked something under the bed. It was sticky. I found a half-eaten cup of peanut butter oozing onto the carpet. She can have a snack anytime she wants and yet…secret peanut butter puddle.
Oh yeah, I did that too.
I’m suddenly realizing that all the bullshit stunts I pulled back then, I’m doomed to endure from the other side. She’s gonna shave her head to the skin the night before pictures, isn’t she? She’s gonna wreck her car and not tell me for three weeks, right? She’s gonna get drunk off cheap wine coolers at a friend’s house and break her wrist trying to climb down a trellis. Because that’s how they do it in the movies. Swell.
All the stupid stuff I did as a kid, revisited on my head.
So, Mom, take comfort in knowing your prayers were heard and heeded.
It’s my turn. I need a full list, all the gods and their preferred offerings. I realize there’s nothing I can do about having a daughter just like me. That ship done sailed and I’m not but a screaming passenger. This series of events is doomed to play out.
But by any and all gods, I can take the same steps to ensure she has a kid just like her.
Your exasperated daughter, Gwenna