As the months went on, my mother went from furtively asking, “Are you sure?” to demanding to know why a change was being made.
“Why is she wearing a hair ribbon to bed?” “Well, you know,” he would say. “It’s cute.”
I could sense her disappointment. They were making Susan as cute as possible, and taking away her intelligence and complexity.
All through the last few months of Miracle and our publicity tour, my mother smiled whenever people told her I was cute, but I could sense she was forcing it: she didn’t care for cuteness, and her disapproval was contagious. After that, anytime someone said it, I would wince. Something about it made me feel smaller.
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