I can’t, no, I can’t stand her anymore!… What kind of wound is this that you sent me, my God? What sins have I committed to deserve such harsh punishment? How much longer will I have her on my back? How much longer will I be obliged to put up with her, to see her face, to hear her voice, how much longer? Won’t there finally be some blind Christian to take her, to rid me of this monstrosity of nature, which her father left me to get back at me – may those who didn’t let me have the abortion never see happiness or progress!…

But why do I curse them? They’re not alive anymore. It’s not their fault. It’s my fault for listening to them. In such matters, one should only listen to oneself, no one else!… While she was little, I consoled myself with the thought that, as she grew up, she would change. “She’ll change!” I said. “She’ll get better. After all, sooner or later, one day she’ll get married. Someone else will have to carry her on his back.” But who am I kidding! I hoped in vain. The way things are going, it seems to me she’ll remain a spinster. And how could she not remain a spinster, the way she is? Ah, curse that monster, Erasmia, who ruined her with her catechisms. What man, I ask you, would ever look at her with desire, the way she dresses, the way she behaves, the way she talks? What serious man would accept to make her the mother of his children with those ridiculous ideas she has, with her neuroses, with the eczema she keeps scratching and won’t let heal? She’ll unfortunately be left on the shelf, and I don’t know, poor me, which of the two of us I should pity more: myself or her? Because, whatever I say, let’s face it. I am her mother and I feel for her.