My mother got sick when I was rich. And my mother, you know ... I don't really want to get into it, but my mother was sicker than my father. And my mother's alive. My mother's fine, OK? I remember going to the hospital to see my mother and wondering, 'Was I in the right place?' Like, this was a hotel. Like it had a concierge, man. If the average person really knew the discrepancy in the health care system, there'd be riots in the streets, OK? They would burn this m-therf""ker down!
They wanted the real mother, the blood mother, the great womb, mother of fierce compassion, a woman large enough to hold all the pain, to carry it away. What we needed was someone who bled...mother's big enough, wide enough for us to hide in...mother's who would breathe for us when we could not breathe anymore, who would fight for us, who would kill for us, die for us.
Tereza's mother never stopped reminding her that being a mother meant sacrificing everything. Her words had the ring of truth, backed as they were by the experience of a woman who had lost everything because of her child. Tereza would listen and believe that being a mother was the highest value in life and that being a mother was a great sacrifice. If a mother was Sacrifice personified, then a daughter was Guilt, with no possibility of redress.
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