She’s at it again. A torrent of social maneuvering, barely a perfunctory nod for her effort.
She’s boasting about this one: eleven years old, little tape recorder of Mummy’s affectation, pleading for more or less or different of something.
It’s trite, but not without its charm.
You could have pulled that off at eleven, not that anyone would have cared. It’s different now.
You’re different now, too. You possess a noble cruelty.
Maybe that’s not entirely good, but it comes with heightened self awareness. That’s what makes Mummy’s girls and their lapdogs mere phenomena compared to you, what makes you special.