There were a lot of things broken inside of Theresa. She was bitchy, she was angry, she worried about money way too much (even when she had some, especially when she had some), she spent too much and gave too little. She allowed her hormones to control her words and actions, and when she decided to do something about it she was too tired and her breasts were too full and achy to do much more than eat leftover cake and hot chocolate for breakfast. There were many things broken with her words, with her spirit. She kept talking to herself, too; singing little uplifting songs and reminding herself to listen to lyrics and phrases and prayers. That lasted for about twenty minutes before the unease and worry and manic calculations started back up again, and her brow would then furrow, creating a little unattractive wrinkle that would deepen after she turned 31 and become a dark mark of anxiety. It stood alone as proof that she wasn’t the calm little sage that she used to claim to be, that she wasn’t easy-going or benign or calm or Zen. Theresa was mainly concerned that Alex would grow up thinking of her as some sort of disappointed martyr, and not the wild and free spirit that she had initially been, that her soul struggled to be. Most of her faith lately had been defensive. And she thought that was just awful so she added that to that manic list and calculation, that Excel spreadsheet of fault and rotten fruit that had mapped her days up until very recently.