Mother. My dear! I’m just as sober as I can be.
Child (pouting). Your eyes laugh, anyhow.
Mother (takes Child by the shoulders and holds the Child in front of her at arm’s length). Look in my face, Mary; straight in my eyes, and tell me why you want such a strange thing.
Child (hesitatingly). I—don’t—just like to, mamma. You might not like it.
Mother. I shall like it if you tell me the true reason, dear.
Child. And you won’t cry?
Mother. Not a tear.
Child (slowly). It’s because I’m so tired of being told I can’t do things, and of having to do things I don’t like. Oh, mamma! You don’t know how tired I am of being somebody else. I want to be just me.
Mother (drawing Child to her side again). Are you some other mamma’s little girl?
Child. Not another mamma’s little girl, but I can’t be the me I want to be. The me inside of me wants to be a very different me indeed.