True Love

My mother, cleaning up the remains of our little tea party, glanced up at me. “True love,” she said with a wry smile.

“True love,” I said with contempt.

And we began to laugh. And the rain pounded the roof, and I imagined my husband riding home in a miserable downpour. My mother threw a teacup into the fireplace and it shattered, spraying the room with fragments. I followed her lead and hurled a cup of my own, and we laughed until we could not stand. We laughed while the storm thundered down the valley. We laughed at men and guns and dim-witted girls and foreigners. We lay on our backs and held one another’s hand and laughed at the ceiling. We laughed until she begged me to stop. And I never loved her more than in that moment.

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