According to Quindlen, "When I see a mother and a daughter having lunch in a restaurant, shopping at Saks, talking together on the crosstown bus, I no longer want to murder them " (31). Jealousy frequently got the best of me, for anytime I was ever in a public place, my mind and attention were lost in the gentle conversations, loving embraces, and words of encouragement between these vast mothers and daughters. Time after time I wondered, why can't I have that? Quindlen then continues on to claim, "I just stare a little more than is polite, hoping that I can combine my observations with a half-remembered conversation, anecdotes, a few old dresses, a photograph or two, and recreate, like an archeologist of the soul " (31), something I can connect with all too well. The narrator has these few memories and experiences, ones that both cease to be, and will never continue, and is triggered by these as she sees the mothers and daughters of the world. The few good memories I have of my mother, untainted by the abuse, and her mental health, I hold onto dearly, knowing I will never get any more, no matter how hard I try. Fast and fleeting memories of bedtime stories, rare hugs, and sparse kisses, all blurry now and slightly altered with age, but I cherish them all the same.
To illustrate, the narrator states that, "I occasionally pass by one of those restaurant tables and I hear the bickering about nothing: You did so, I did not, don't tell me what you did or didn't do, oh, leave me alone. And I think that my fantasies are better than any reality could be. Then again, maybe not"" (32). Quindlen is conveying her internal conflict with the idea of a bright side of not having a mother, not having to put up with the incisive arguing that mothers and daughters do, for her fantasy of her ideal mother-daughter relationship that she yearns for surely must be better than any of those realities she witnesses at those restaurants she frequents.
