“And that’s…a good thing?” Greta ventured.

Muriel nodded. “We honored one another’s differences. It’s the only way we were able to have a relationship.”

“Sounds nice.” Greta hadn’t meant it to come out sounding bitter.

“Oh dear. Are you and your mother too similar?”

“Nah. I mean it sounds nice to honor the differences instead of have them be a point of contention. My mom wants me to be like her, but I’m not, and she takes it as an offense. Like I’m choosing to be different from her because I don’t respect her. Which isn’t true.”

“What do you respect most about her?”

Greta blanked.

Her mother was always anxious, always seemed to be okay only if her children were fine. She never admitted to doing anything because she wanted it, only because it was “the right way.” She didn’t ask Greta’s dad to do anything around the house, even though he never did anything on his own.

Fuck, do I not respect my mother?

“I don’t know,” she said, horrified. “God, I’m awful. All I can think about are the bad things.”

“We all judge our parents, Greta. They’re the people who teach us what the world is, and when we’re old enough, we learn that they’re wrong in ways they didn’t even know. That’s because the world is different for us.”

“Seriously, though, all I can think of is that she raised five kids, and I refuse to respect my mom only for child-rearing. I’m disgusting.”

Muriel smiled and squeezed her shoulder. “It’s a mindset, dear. If you think about it when you’re talking to her, I’m sure you’ll find things to respect. Respect isn’t the same thing as like.”

She walked into the back room, leaving her paintings behind.

As Greta carried Muriel’s bags to the garden gate, she tried to replay the last conversation she had with her mom to find things to respect. Nell had been worried that she was in a city alone, sad that she was gone during the holidays, and resentful that Greta had left “because of something so silly.”

So her mom judged her too.

“Muriel? Do you feel wise? And if so, when does it start?”