Just Like Your Mother

You look just like your mother, they tell her. How much you’ve grown. How lovely you look. Just like your mother.

She imagines that’s the first thing the doctor said when she was born as well. She imagines that while she was wailing, screaming, kicking to be away from the woman who had given birth to her, the doctor peered at her small baby face and said, Oh my, Esther, she looks just like you. How blessed your girl is.

Blessed. As if it is a good thing. As if she should feel grateful for a face that will forever tie her to a woman she could never possibly understand. She hates Esther for many things. She hates her for her vanity, her flightiness, her vulnerability. Most of all, she hates Esther for giving her this face. For being so selfish, so conceited, that she would bestow upon her daughter an exact likeness, so that no one could think of her without thinking of Esther too.

At the dinner table her own haughty set of features is mirrored on Esther’s face. Once she told her mother just to spite her, Sometimes I wish I could carve my face off just so I could stop seeing you in the mirror.

I’m tired, Valerie, Esther said. Can’t we just eat in peace?

I have never known a day of peace because of this face.

A few days ago they entertained an aunt who last visited when she was three.

Valerie, Esther said, Get your aunt a glass of water.

She’s a spitting image of you, her aunt said as she was leaving the room. You must be so proud.

She held her breath and waited for her mother’s answer.

Only on the outside, her mother responded. And thank goodness for that.