only saying those things to make me feel better. But you know what?”
Flipping to face me, her red-rimmed eyes are wide, the bright blue that usually greets me, dulled. Sniffling, she folds her hands under her cheek, waiting for words of wisdom from her mom. I only hope I don’t screw this up.
“I’m not going to tell you that. You know how much I love you. How much Grammy and PopPop love you. Don’t even get me started on your brother. That boy holds the title of President of the Clementine Thorne fan club.”
Poking her side, I smile and am rewarded with one in return. She hiccups a sigh, her puffy eyes heavy after hours of fighting through emotions.
“What I want you to remember, Clem, is those girls, the ones who hurt your feelings today, are behaving this way for a reason. We may never know what that reason is, but trust me when I say, the mean girls are probably hurting in one way or another. People who are hurting often hurt people.”
“I used to be mean. When I was little, and daddy was here, and we lived in that big house . . . Mrs. Honeycutt told me I made her heart sad and Grammy would tell me to stop actin’ ugly. Do you think that’s why they don’t like me anymore? Because I’m ugly?”
As her mother, I want to tell her no. I want to remind her that she’s smart, funny, and the best big sister ever. When she first came home upset, my mom had to stop me from calling the parents of those children and telling them to punish their children for hurting my daughter. Mom reminded me of who I was in this town, the reputation I created by my own actions and wore like a badge of honor. The same badge my daughter inherited by the time she was three. Just as I know I’m judged for my past behaviors, the reputation bestowed upon me years ago, these children will be too.
The whispers aren’t as quiet as they are meant to be. “Like mother like daughter” and “Apples don’t fall far from the tree” are spoken about us more often than prayers before supper.
I know the hurt and loneliness that comes from that sort of reputation, the efforts it takes to maintain that level of ugliness. I don’t want that for any child. Not my own or any other.
The version of me who walked around this town wasn’t the person I was deep inside. It wasn’t the way my parents raised me but instead, the mask I wore. Shame for how I behaved then, and even sometimes today, sits on my chest like a badge of dishonor. Keeping my feelings to myself, the hurt and irrational teenage angst that consumed me, I changed quickly. Gone was the smiling and happy girl and in her place an angry and vindictive teenager. The humiliation my parents must have felt having me for a daughter is something I’ve apologized for over and over. Neither my mother nor my father ever told me of their disappointment, but I knew.
Often, I wonder if I’d apologized, asked for a second chance with my peers, if my life would be different.
“Adults call that payback or karma,” I say under my breath.
“Huh?”
Ignoring her question I say, “First, Grammy meant ugly behavior and while you are sometimes a little snippy with your brother, I think you’ve worked hard on that. Regardless, I don’t think it’s okay to be mean to anyone.” The words are from my heart, but they taste sour on my tongue. More than anyone, I am guilty of being ugly.
“I know that we’ve had a lot of life changes these last few years, but no matter what we’ve lost, it’s important to count our blessings. Trust me, you won’t always get along with everyone, but it doesn’t mean treating people poorly is okay. What’s important is that you give grace when you need to and that you wake each day with the intent to be kind.”
“Maybe I should go back to my old school. The one before we moved here with Grammy and Pop.”
Her private school. The one that cost tens of thousands of dollars a year.
“Changing schools isn’t the answer. You can’t run from the situations like this. But maybe we make a few smaller changes.” Ones that don’t cost a ton of money. The reality of how little financial security we have is an ugly reminder of