As a middle-aged woman with no kids, I have been by turns annoyed, amused, angry, breathless, and resigned on Mother’s Day. There have been Mother’s Days when I couldn’t bear to have everyone gauging my expression, so I skipped church. There are others when I’ve stood as requested—for “we are all mothers in Zion”—to receive a potted begonia or a chocolate bar. “No,” I would think to myself. “We are not ALL mothers. Pretending we are doesn’t help.”
