Chapter Eight-- Things That Are True, Things That Are Ignoble


My mother sets out a plate of shortbread cookies and a ceramic pot of tea decorated with little yellow flowers. An almost syrupy fruit-like scent wafts from the pot. Her auburn hair is perfectly coiffed and pinned, her modestly-cut yellow dress crisply pressed, makeup carefully and subtley applied, a stark contrast to my own hurriedly restrained hair and utter lack of adornment. The house is, as always, spotless and decorated like a photo in a home décor magazine. My mother prides herself on being the perfect picture of domesticity and wifeliness, a carefully cultivated image meant to enhance my father’s standing in the religious communities he frequents and solicits business from.


Well. I say ‘father.’ It seems I may be mistaken about that assumption. That’s why I’m here.

Read More...