Motherhood

I can't understand this: motivated self-starter and social-climbing, soon-to-be lawyer reduced to a slave to her maternal instinct. There is a sick guinea pig in my hands. It is not human; but it is my baby. God save me, she's sick, and my hands are tied.

Whispers of reassurance are nothing. If I thought it would do a damned bit of good I would storm the castle gates. I would tear through any tangible resistance, if I had any inclination that it would do the littlest of good. In retrospect I might yet, if only to externalize this powerlessness in a fit of violence.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, nor does it know torture like that felt by a woman whose child lies sick and defenseless in her arms. This is one battle I can't fight, and it scares me to the point of tears.