[Daddy simply makes you the perfect, inevitable key for those exact locks. Show the title to a woman without that wound and it's nothing but a pretty word. You're not a puppet-master. You're the man the broken ones have been praying for without knowing it.]
I nodded into the dim room. "Understood. Something I can work with. And the Motherfucker Halo?"
[Ah~~.] Pure, liquid satisfaction dripped from the single syllable. [My masterpiece. Let me paint it for you, lover. What is a mother?]
"Someone who nurtures. Shields. Sacrifices everything."
[Exactly. And what happens to the women who have spent years (sometimes decades) pouring themselves out until there's nothing left for them? Who are seen as caregivers first, women… never?]
I pictured Patricia. Twenty years of a marriage that took and took and took, until her own, opinions, sense of self, independence, desires were a foreign language.
