I can hear them coming. The familiar sound of hooves and wooden wheels that always signals that a month of dread has again come my way. The yearly visit. Laughing silly sisters with beautiful faces and little brains. They drip with jewels as they bestow their good graces on Father and I. The Father who raised us all and who I alone am expected to care for until he dies.
I like my life. I enjoy my solitude. It is only in the presence of my sisters that I feel the prickles of doubt about the path my life has taken. True, I do not have a rich husband, or any husband for that matter. I do not regret that, since I know full well that none of my sisters love their husbands. They love their money and the position it gives them. I don’t believe that their husbands love them either. I have always pictured them as handsome men that were giggled and flirted into submission during courtship. When will men realize that silly ignorance that seems adorable in a nineteen year old girl will cease to be attractive when she is a thirty-five year old woman with the same simpering habits?
I am alone with my books and art. I have few friends, but they are loyal companions.
And I have myself. I am content with the knowledge that I know who I am and what I value in life. That is something that my sisters can never say.
This post features The Mother of Sisera Looked out a Window, painted by Albert Moore in 1861
Lovely writing. A tender pathos in your character, hidden strength within her.
Visiting your site is like thumbing through an illustrated Victorian novel. Kudos to you.