Devil’s Food

The cake is dripping with glossy ribbons of perfectly tempered chocolate. I take it from the counter and place it in front of her. She looks at me with despair and I know what she sees: the ironed apron tied around my waist, the sparkling floors, the children’s report cards gleaming with As on the spotless refrigerator door. I smile sweetly and say, “Not to worry, dear. It could be so much worse.” A look of angst overcomes her.

I know that look. Years ago she stood in a picket line holding a sign demanding the right to choose. A ballot. A box. A baby. Her eyes fell upon mine as I walked past poised and serene, a child dolefully in my arms and pity on my face. I shook my head slowly. She wore that same look of angst then. The seed of doubt was planted, and she would go on to hold the sign lower, question her own mind, and finally put it down.

Before that she longed for freedom, and I sat in the corner of the parlour, trussed up in ribbons and curls and giggling lightly at the idea that she could do anything more. Read. Write. Work. Publish. Nonsense. Best to be frivolous and protected. Best to be like me.

She thwarts me on occasion- oh yes, there is no doubt about that. But her successes are hard won and she still bears the scars. I render her roads rocky and to this day the seed of doubt is still there, making her agonize over whether the work and the choices and the freedom are worth it –to make her feel that she is somehow thwarting nature: an unnatural creature in a natural world.

I take a knife and cut a big slice of the cake.

“Here you are dear. No more man, you say? Then you’ve no need to worry about your waistline. Just enjoy.”

Because I do. I watch her cry and smile.