A Story
There once was a lady who did everything right. A homemaker of astounding familial reknown, she volunteered to host holiday dinners and would bake eight desserts. Just trying to decide which to eat was exhausting for the guests.
Her house was always immaculately swept, her kids impeccably groomed. She never lost her figure or her temper. Her hospitality was such that she wanted them to talk - how quaint! - that they get to know one another better. She hated games, be they card or baby shower ones, thinking them subterfuges for avoiding intimacy.
Her lupus finally caught up with her. She had fought it so well for so long that it almost came as a surprise that she still had it. She became a different person the last two years of her life. Her hands swelled to the size of boxing gloves. She never came to holiday parties or family weddings. She never let anyone see her - one time not even her children.
Was it pride or despair brought upon by illness that caused her withdrawal? Was it that she could no longer be perfect? Or not wishing to inflict her weakness, her irritability, her fallenness upon others, as if she be a bad example?
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