I sat in my therapist's office, holding the shreds, muttering, "I can't believe how passive-aggressive my mom is being." My therapist paused, looked at me and said, "I wonder. Is this more in the category of 'aggressive-aggressive'?" I was very new to therapy and, apparently, very new to the concept of passive-aggression.
Mom could also be a mess of contradictions: She'd choose her husband of the week over her kids again and again but would also make us seven types of cookies ― including homemade fudge from scratch ― at Christmas.
Like many women of her generation, between bad husbands and limited choices, it didn't seem like my mom had reaped many benefits of feminism. 'We didn't call it 'me too,' she told me with a shrug, 'We just called it life.'
But I knew she enthusiastically donned her cute QVC outfits and perfect face makeup for church every Sunday morning. And every Sunday night. And Wednesday night (for Bible study) and Thursday night (for choir practice)."
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