I HAVE read that a girl’s relationship with her father will predict her love life, and that with her mother will determine her relationship with herself.
It seems simplistic and heteronormative; the work of a pop psychologist flogging their new book on a morning chat show, minimising a complex bond to a sound bite. “Women become their mothers,” Oscar Wilde wrote.
“That is their tragedy.”
But perhaps it is not the becoming of our mothers that is the tragedy, but that we have been conditioned to fear it, to dread hearing our mothers’ voices emerge from our throats, our mothers’ faces forming across our own. There is an inevitability, a feeling that we have no control over our own destiny. We are born of their flesh and we become it.
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