She lost it again. She was in her daughter’s face, having a toddler-like temper tantrum. Except that she was thirty and a mother and should be able to control herself. And should be able to control her daughter’s behavior, at least a little bit. This was all she had left after about three hours of reasoning, begging, and sternly, but unpersuasively saying “Calm down. Now.” Three hours of threatening, pleading, and even hitting her. Twice.
The little girl was angry. Or scared. Or both.
“You’re not my mother. You stole me from my real parents. Admit the truth!”
Poor little Rapunzel. Seeing mother Gothel for who she is. At last.
Later, at night, her dead mother pays her a visit.
“You know,” she says, “You thought your father was sterile and we used a sperm donor to make you.”
“We did have a donor. We used donor eggs. I’m not your real mother.”
She’s smirking cruelly as she says that.
I don’t remember that cruel smirk from when she was alive.
I do realize this now makes three generations of motherless daughters. The sins of the mothers.