A Life Without Gratitude
Then my mother says, with the calmness of someone who has decided the conversation is over on their terms:
"I don't know why you're being so dramatic. We have given you everything. Everything we had. You are alive. You have a life." A pause. A small, precise pause, with something in it I have no word for — not cruelty, not coldness, something more indifferent than either. "You should be grateful for that. Some children don't even get what you had."
I look at her.
"You're nothing without us," she says. "You know that. Without the name, without the family — you're nothing. A sick girl with nothing."
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