A Monologue from a Painting

JEANNE: No, Monica! Too many times, I’ve just been like “hell, could be worse.” I take too much from people: from my mother, my husband, my god-forsaken children. 

Now, even if I was crowned mother of the year, no one would acknowledge it. If the president himself would present me a plaque with my name engraved in silver, it wouldn’t change a thing!

You realize that Dean chose me out of a raffle? Like I was for sale. That is how my life has been since then. I have to be here for Dean when he wants me. My body has to be how it was when he found me. 17 and never touched. And he doesn’t care that I’m maimed from our three children. Our children, always hungry after I feed them. Screaming like lunatics and crying any time I try to comfort them. Who comforts me? Who is the one who's supposed to love me without hurting me when my tone is tired, or when the dinner’s not right, or the child I birthed is too stupid. 

I’m not mother of the year. As long as I’m living, I never will.

I will happily organize the mothers event, I will smile and serve drinks and hors d'oeuvres, but do not ask me for any more than that. I’ll be busy.