The Hunger Moon by Suzanne Matson

Eleanor said, laughing.
    “It’s what I want.” Her daughter’s voice was sullen now, the way she had sounded when she was in high school.
    “Dear, I would never want to interfere. All I’m saying is, don’t waste your money shopping. Please don’t get anything for me at any rate. I can’t think of a thing I need.”
    “All right, Mother. If you change your mind about going out, call me. Don’t try to walk anywhere alone. Do you have everything you need?”
    “Oh, yes. June stocks me up every Friday. When will I see you?”
    “You could have seen me today.”
    “Janice, why must you be so argumentative? I mean, after this dreadful storm.”
    “Sometime next week. I’ll call.”
    “Fine. Good-bye, dear.”
    E LEANOR AND HER CHILDREN ALWAYS seemed to end up sniping at each other lately. When she did see them, they usually wanted to come by to sweep her away into some activity that she had altogether no interest in—always on their schedule, always at their pace. And they were so defensive about their lives. Their lives were their business; Eleanor had no wish to dictate to anyone. But all she had to do was make a simple observation about them and they either flew off the handle or started sulking. Eleanor could not recall feeling similarly insecure about herself when she talked to her own parents. But, then, she hadn’t lived her life like a child, either: having secrets like Peter, or trying to remain in a perpetual never-never land of college like Janice. Helen was neurotic because she never had enough gumption to make herself the financial equal of her husband. Now she was a middle-aged housewife, her children almost through high school, and if Eleanor knew that slick son-in-law of hers, he was probably cheating on his wife. When the youngest boy started kindergarten,Eleanor had suggested that Helen go back to college and finish her B.A.
    “The boys still need me at home, Mother,” Helen had said.
    “You’re fooling yourself, Helen. When children are in school, they don’t need their mothers sitting at home waiting for them. It’s bad for the mothers, bad for the children. They need to see their mother doing something with her life.”
    “What would you know about it?” Helen had flashed at her. “Not every mother is itching to leave her children behind as soon as they can climb on a school bus. Some mothers like to go to PTA meetings and bake cookies.”
    “So, you’re saying I was a bad mother because I worked.”
    “I am not saying you were a bad mother. I am saying I am a different person than you are. Roger earns enough to support us all. We both like it that I stay at home. Why is that so hard for you to accept?”
    “Far be it from me to accept or not accept anything. I’m simply hoping for the best for you, and I never thought that finishing one’s education harmed anybody. There may be a day when you’ll wish you have it.”
    “What is that supposed to mean? That you think Roger and I won’t stay married?”
    Eleanor threw up her hands. They never spoke of it again, though through the years, Eleanor could see typical housewife quirks developing in Helen. The way she shopped, for instance. Helen was addicted—and addicted was not too strong a word—to clothes shopping. She expended much too much energy on frivolous things like hair and makeup, and, as far as Eleanor could see, hovered too closely over those boys. Eleanor didn’t think they had turned out any better than if they had had a mother who practiced a profession; in fact, they probably turned out much worse for having one who would pick up every dirty sock they ever tossed on the floor. They were loud, noisy boys who took their mother’s servitude utterly for granted.
    Though Eleanor tried not to be critical, she truly did notunderstand her children’s choices, and it almost felt like an affront to her that they would grow themselves into lives that seemed so purposefully alien. Helen had turned out a lot like her