Father And Daughter Similarity Quotes

Betrayal is too kind a word to describe a situation in which a father says he loves his daughter but claims he must teach her about the horrors of the world in order to make her a stronger person; a situation in which he watches or participates in rituals that make her feel like she is going to die. She experiences pain that is so intense that she cannot think; her head spins so fast she can't remember who she is or how she got there. All she knows is pain. All she feels is desperation. She tries to cry out for help, but soon learns that no one will listen. No matter how loud she cries, she can't stop or change what is happening. No matter what she does, the pain will not stop. Her father orders her to be tortured and tells her it is for her own good. He tells her that she needs the discipline, or that she has asked for it by her misbehavior. Betrayal is too simple a word to describe the overwhelming pain, the overwhelming loneliness and isolation this child experiences. As if the abuse during the rituals were not enough, this child experiences similar abuse at home on a daily basis. When she tries to talk about her pain, she is told that she must be crazy. "Nothing bad has happened to you;' her family tells her Each day she begins to feel more and more like she doesn't know what is real. She stops trusting her own feelings because no one else acknowledges them or hears her agony. Soon the pain becomes too great. She learns not to feel at all. This strong, lonely, desperate child learns to give up the senses that make all people feel alive. She begins to feel dead. She wishes she were dead. For her there is no way out. She soon learns there is no hope. As she grows older she gets stronger. She learns to do what she is told with the utmost compliance. She forgets everything she has ever wanted. The pain still lurks, but it's easier to pretend it's not there than to acknowledge the horrors she has buried in the deepest parts of her mind. Her relationships are overwhelmed by the power of her emotions. She reaches out for help, but never seems to find what she is looking for The pain gets worse. The loneliness sets in. When the feelings return, she is overcome with panic, pain, and desperation. She is convinced she is going to die. Yet, when she looks around her she sees nothing that should make her feel so bad. Deep inside she knows something is very, very wrong, but she doesn't remember anything. She thinks, "Maybe I am crazy.

I have often noticed that we are inclined to endow our friends with the stability of type that literary characters acquire in the reader's mind. No matter how many times we reopen 'King Lear,' never shall we find the good king banging his tankard in high revelry, all woes forgotten, at a jolly reunion with all three daughters and their lapdogs. Never will Emma rally, revived by the sympathetic salts in Flaubert's father's timely tear. Whatever evolution this or that popular character has gone through between the book covers, his fate is fixed in our minds, and, similarly, we expect our friends to follow this or that logical and conventional pattern we have fixed for them.

Sitting across the dinner table was a man who had paid a massive price for hoping and trying for a just world, who had fathered and then neglected me, who wasn’t aware that the rage he harbored had killed all other impulses in him […] And here I was, sliding down a similar inevitable path.

Consider again the mated pair with which we began the chapter. Both partners, as selfish machines, ‘want’ sons and daughters in equal numbers. To this extent they agree. Where they disagree is in who is going to bear the brunt of the cost of rearing each one of those children. Each individual wants as many surviving children as possible. The less he or she is obliged to invest in any one of those children, the more children he or she can have. The obvious way to achieve this desirable state of affairs is to induce your sexual partner to invest more than his or her fair share of resources in each child, leaving you free to have other children with other partners. This would be a desirable strategy for either sex, but it is more difficult for the female to achieve. Since she starts by investing more than the male, in the form of her large, food-rich egg, a mother is already at the moment of conception ‘committed’ to each child more deeply than the father is. She stands to lose more if the child dies than the father does. More to the point, she would have to invest more than the father in the future in order to bring a new substitute child up to the same level of development. If she tried the tactic of leaving the father holding the baby, while she went off with another male, the father might, at relatively small cost to himself, retaliate by abandoning the baby too. Therefore, at least in the early stages of child development, if any abandoning is going to be done, it is likely to be the father who abandons the mother rather than the other way around. Similarly, females can be expected to invest more in children than males, not only at the outset, but throughout development. So, in mammals for example, it is the female who incubates the foetus in her own body, the female who makes the milk to suckle it when it is born, the female who bears the brunt of the load of bringing it up and protecting it. The female sex is exploited, and the fundamental evolutionary basis for the exploitation is the fact that eggs are larger than sperms.

Even children born of the same parents, in the same family home, who share a similar upbringing, are likely to inherit different traumas and experience different fates. For example, the firstborn son is likely to carry what remains unresolved with the father, and the firstborn daughter is likely to carry what remains unresolved with the mother, though this is not always the case. The reverse can also be true. Later children in the family are likely to carry different aspects of their parents’ traumas, or elements of the grandparents’ traumas.

You never told me how everyone liked the sirupskake." "It was splendid!" she said, her smile returning. "Your fa- my husband asked that you bake another one soon for me to bring him." Freya was always tripping over her words like that. Anna did the same thing herself. She chalked it up to wanting to say so much in a short amount of time. She was like a pot of melting chocolate: the words bubbled over. "Did he like the candied oranges I placed on top?" "Yes! He said he'd never seen it done that way before." Anna shrugged. "I love to put my own spin on recipes. I like to be unique, if you haven't noticed." "I have." Freya smiled. "I think my husband would enjoy meeting you. You and I have a similar joyful spirit, while he"- she sighed- "carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, I'm afraid. Much like my daughter." Freya talked about her daughter a lot but unfortunately never brought her along for visits. From what Anna knew, the girl seemed whip smart and serious. Anna wished she could meet her so she could shake her up a bit. Everyone needed to let their hair down sometimes. Plus it would be nice to have a friend close to her own age.

Lady Merritt Sterling was a vibrantly attractive woman with large, dark eyes, a wealth of lustrous sable hair, and a flawless porcelain complexion. Unlike her two sisters, she had inherited the shorter, stockier frame of the Marsden side instead of the slender build of her mother. Similarly, she had her father's square-shaped face and determined jaw instead of her mother's delicate oval one. However, Merritt possessed a charm so compelling that she eclipsed every other woman in the vicinity, no matter how beautiful. Merritt focused on whomever she was talking to with a wealth of sincere interest, as if she or he were the only person in the world. She asked questions and listened without ever seeming to wait for her turn to talk. She was the guest everyone invited when they needed to blend a group of disparate personalities, just as a roux would bind soap or sauce into velvety smoothness. It was no exaggeration to say that every man who met Merritt fell at least a little in love with her. When she had entered society, countless suitors had pursued her before she'd finally consented to marry Joshua Sterling, an American-born shipping magnate who had taken up residence in London.

We see that it is not the alleged profligacy of the male world that necessarily causes immorality and delinquency in boys and girls. Women are not oppressed and morally led astray because of males, but by their own distorted conception of masculinity, a condition originally caused by their malignant mother's attitudes. In today's world many women prefer raising children without a male influence being present. This is because the "male" is rejected in a similar way as the woman (or mother) is rejected. Neither the father nor the mother have contributed to the creation of a positive superego or ego-ideal (Self-image). Consequently, both parents are demoted in the eyes of a malignant daughter.

TIA OR TARA has stopped applying makeup to my wife’s face and is looking at Scottie with disapproval. The light is hitting this woman’s face, giving me an opportunity to see that she should perhaps be working on her own makeup. Her coloring is similar to a manila envelope. There are specks of white in her eyebrows, and her concealer is not concealing. I can tell my daughter doesn’t know what to do with this woman’s critical look. “What?” Scottie asks. “I don’t want any makeup.” She looks at me for protection, and it’s heartbreaking. All the women who model with Joanie have this inane urge to make over my daughter with the notion that they’re helping her somehow. She’s not as pretty as her older sister or her mother, and these other models think that slapping on some rouge will somehow make her feel better about her facial fate. They’re like missionaries. Mascara thumpers. “I was just going to say that I think your mother was enjoying the view,” Tia or Tara says. “It’s so pretty outside. You should let the light in.” My daughter looks at the curtain. Her little mouth is open. Her hand reaches for a tumbleweed of hair. “Listen here, T. Her mother was not enjoying the view. Her mother is in a coma. And she’s not supposed to be in bright light.” “My name is not T,” she says. “My name is Allison.” “Okay, then, Ali. Don’t confuse my daughter, please.” “I’m turning into a remarkable young lady,” Scottie says. “Damn straight.” My heart feels like one of Scottie’s clogs clomping down the hall. I don’t know why I became so angry.

I have often noticed that we are inclined to endow our friends with the stability of type that literary characters acquire in the reader's mind. No matter how many times we reopen 'King Lear,' never shall we find the good king banging his tankard in high revelry, all woes forgotten, at a jolly reunion with all three daughters and their lapdogs. Never will Emma rally, revived by the sympathetic salts in Flaubert's father's timely tear. Whatever evolution this or that popular character has gone through between the book covers, his fate is fixed in our minds, and, similarly, we expect our friends to follow this or that logical and conventional pattern we have fixed for them. Thus X will never compose the immortal music that would clash with the second-rate symphonies he has accustomed us to. Y will never commit murder. Under no circumstances can Z ever betray us. We have it all arranged in our minds, and the less often we see a particular person the. more satisfying it is to check how obediently he conforms to our notion of him every time we hear of him. Any deviation in the fates we have ordained would strike us as not only anomalous but unethical. We would prefer not to have known at all our neighbor, the retired hot-dog stand operator, if it turns out he has just produced the greatest book of poetry his age has seen.

Would she have enjoyed a more natural parent-child fit if she’d been an introvert herself? Not necessarily. Introverted parents can face challenges of their own. Sometimes painful childhood memories can get in the way. Emily Miller, a clinical social worker in Ann Arbor, Michigan, told me about a little girl she treated, Ava, whose shyness was so extreme that it prevented her from making friends or from concentrating in class. Recently she sobbed when asked to join a group singing in front of the classroom, and her mother, Sarah, decided to seek Miller’s help. When Miller asked Sarah, a successful business journalist, to act as a partner in Ava’s treatment, Sarah burst into tears. She’d been a shy child, too, and felt guilty that she’d passed on to Ava her terrible burden. “I hide it better now, but I’m still just like my daughter,” she explained. “I can approach anyone, but only as long as I’m behind a journalist’s notebook.” Sarah’s reaction is not unusual for the pseudo-extrovert parent of a shy child, says Miller. Not only is Sarah reliving her own childhood, but she’s projecting onto Ava the worst of her own memories. But Sarah needs to understand that she and Ava are not the same person, even if they do seem to have inherited similar temperaments. For one thing, Ava is influenced by her father, too, and by any number of environmental factors, so her temperament is bound to have a different expression. Sarah’s own distress need not be her daughter’s, and it does Ava a great disservice to assume that it will be. With the right guidance, Ava may get to the point where her shyness is nothing more than a small and infrequent annoyance.

First came the flower girls, pretty little lasses in summery frocks, skipping down the aisle, tossing handfuls of petals and, in one case, the basket when it was empty. Next came the bridesmaids, Luna, strutting in her gown and heels, a challenging dare in her eyes that begged someone to make a remark about the girly getup she was forced to wear. Next came Reba and Zena, giggling and prancing, loving the attention. This time, Leo wasn’t thrown by Teena’s appearance, nor was he fooled. How could he have mistaken her for his Vex? While similar outwardly, Meena’s twin lacked the same confident grin, and the way she moved, with a delicate grace, did not resemble his bold woman at all. How unlike they seemed. Until Teena tripped, flailed her arms, and took out part of a row before she could recover! Yup, they were sisters all right. With a heavy sigh, and pink cheeks, Teena managed to walk the rest of the red carpet, high heels in hand— one of which seemed short a heel. With all the wedding party more or less safely arrived, there was only one person of import left. However, she didn’t walk alone. Despite his qualms, which Leo heard over the keg they’d shared the previous night, Peter appeared ready to give his daughter away. Ready, though, didn’t mean he looked happy about it. The seams of the suit his soon-to-be father-in-law wore strained, the rented tux not the best fit, but Leo doubted that was why he looked less than pleased. Leo figured there were two reasons for Peter’s grumpy countenance. The first was the fact that he had to give his little girl away. The second probably had to do with the snickers and the repetition of a certain rumor, “I hear he lost an arm-wrestling bet and had to wear a tie.” For those curious, Leo had won that wager, and thus did his new father-in-law wear the, “gods-damned-noose” around his neck. However, who cared about that sore loser when upon his arm rested a vision of beauty. Meena’s long hair tumbled in golden waves over her shoulders, the ends curled into fat ringlets that tickled her cleavage. At her temples, ivory combs swept the sides up and away, revealing the creamy line of her neck. The strapless gown made her appear as a goddess. The bust, tight and low cut, displayed her fantastic breasts so well that Leo found himself growling. He didn’t like the appreciative eyes in the crowd. Yet, at the same time, he felt a certain pride. His bride was beautiful, and it was only right she be admired. From her impressive breasts, the gown cinched in before flaring out. The filmy white fabric of the skirt billowed as she walked. He noted she wore flats. Reba’s suggestion so she wouldn’t get a heel stuck. Her gown didn’t quite touch the ground. Zena’s idea to ensure she wouldn’t trip on the hem. They’d taken all kinds of precautions to ensure her the smoothest chance of success. She might lack the feline grace of other ladies. She might have stumbled a time or two and been kept upright only by the smooth actions of her father, but dammit, in his eyes, she was the daintiest, most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. And she is mine.

Demeter, an agricultural goddess, evolved from earlier, pre-agricultural Mother goddesses similar to Gaia, Rhea, or Meter. She was known in the Hellene world as the spirit of the unripe fruit, whereas her virgin daughter Kore was considered to be the spirit of flowering. Linking Demeter to Kore is Persephone, that goddess known in the ancient teachings of Eleusis as “Savior.” In this sense, she is similar to Dionysos, to whose sacred Infant form she gives birth in the Mysteries of Eleusis Hades, the abductor of Kore, also has a tripartite nature, which defines his archetype. As the underworld lord of the dead, Aidoneus — an appellation of Hades, which is derived from an ancient root word meaning “father”— he abducted the maiden. As Sky God, or Zeus, this tripartite Deity allows, even hallows, the abduction of his own daughter, who is also his paramour. The taking of Kore by Hades is the act which allows the conception and birth of a second integrating force: Iacchos, also known as Liknites, the helpless infant form of that Deity who is unifier of the dark underworld (cthonic) realm of Hades and the Olympian (“shining”) one of Zeus; this integrating force is the Mystery archetype par excellence, Dionysos.

Keir's attention, however, was fixed not on Kingston, but on the frozen figure by the doorway. "Who's that?" he demanded. Merritt followed his gaze to Phoebe, whose face was carefully blank. What a shock it must be for her, to be confronted with a man who looked so eerily similar- almost identical- to her father as a young man. "Dear," she said apologetically to Phoebe, "about that story I was telling you... there was a part I hadn't yet reached." Her friend replied slowly, staring at the duke. "I think perhaps my father should explain it to me." "I will," Kingston said, giving his daughter a reassuring smile. "Come with me." He ushered her from the room, saying, "We'll leave Merritt with her fiancé." "What?" came Phoebe's bewildered voice, just before he closed the door.

She chose to forgive him for that one incident, because his apology and regret were believable. Or at least believable enough that giving him a second chance hurt less than leaving with a broken heart would have. Over time, the incidents that followed were similar to the first. My father would repeatedly show remorse and promise to never do it again. It finally got to a point where she knew his promises were empty, but she was a mother of two daughters by then and had no money to leave. And unlike Lily, my mother didn’t have a lot of support.

I bit the insides of my cheeks to swallow down my tears. Sitting across the dinner table was a man who had paid a massive price for hoping and trying for a just world, who had fathered and then neglected me, who wasn’t aware that the rage he harbored had killed all other impulses in him, chewing at the core of his compassion before spitting it back out. And here I was, sliding down a similar inevitable path.

up her way as Kate passed. Two other bridesmaids in similar attire followed Kate. The “Wedding March” began, and everyone stood. Phone cameras were at the ready, and seconds later, Hanna walked down the aisle with her mom, Lee. In place of Hanna’s father, Lee had the role of giving her daughter away. Hanna looked stunning. Her long blond

BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS Throughout the story, there is significant friction between Rory and Camilla, much of which stems from Camilla’s need to manage her daughter’s life. In what ways, if any, do you feel Rory contributes to the chronic tension between them? Soline’s mother, Esmée, believes that each of us creates a unique echo in the world and that those echoes are constantly seeking their match—in order to become complete. Do you believe such a thing is possible? One of the threads running through the book touches on the tendency of daughters to repeat their mothers’ mistakes, especially in relationship matters. Have you or someone you know experienced this in real life? If so, was the pattern eventually recognized and broken? The theme of chasing one’s dreams figures prominently in the journeys of both Rory and Soline. From an early age, Soline was taught that the work they did was a sacred vocation for which the Roussels had been especially chosen, and Hux once told Rory that the dream of opening an art gallery had her name all over it. Do you believe we are each given a calling in life, a talent or gift that feeds our soul and benefits others? “Everything happens for a reason” is a commonly used axiom, particularly when events suddenly turn our lives upside down. Throughout the book, Rory’s and Soline’s lives are upended by a series of seeming coincidences, causing them to wonder if some unseen hand might be at work. Do you believe that certain things are meant to be? That some benevolent force is trying to guide us to our highest good? Or is everything random? Rory tells Soline that she and Camilla push each other’s buttons. Soline understands, but at times she seems to side with Camilla, perhaps because she had a similar relationship with her own mother. What parallels did you note in the relationships between Soline and Esmée and Rory and Camilla? By the end of the book, it seems obvious that Soline has come into Rory’s life for a reason and that the reverse is also true. In the end, each has irrevocably altered the other’s life. Have you ever had someone come into your life, even briefly, who you feel came to teach you a lesson or help you find your path? On her deathbed, Esmée tells Soline about the father she never knew, a man Esmée loved dearly but sent away out of obedience to her mother. She speaks to her daughter about a grief worse than death—the grief of a life half-lived. How do you think these revelations affect Soline’s choices when Anson suddenly reappears in her life? One of Esmée’s quotes is about forgiveness. She says forgiveness is the greatest magick of all and that it makes all things new. Do you believe in the power of forgiveness? If so, is it true in all things, or are there certain things that can never be made new?

. we are who we are. You never wanted the crown, but it came to you. I never wanted to be a Bratva’s daughter, but I killed Rodion and I’d kill again if I had to. I want choice in my life . . . but I’m not afraid of the darker side of myself. I hated it when I thought I was split into two halves—good like my mother and evil like my father. Now I think . . . they’re both just me. And they always have been.” I thought something similar. I thought I was a good man until a switch flipped inside of me and the monster was unleashed.

. . we are who we are. You never wanted the crown, but it came to you. I never wanted to be a Bratva’s daughter, but I killed Rodion and I’d kill again if I had to. I want choice in my life . . . but I’m not afraid of the darker side of myself. I hated it when I thought I was split into two halves—good like my mother and evil like my father. Now I think . . . they’re both just me. And they always have been.” I thought something similar. I thought I was a good man until a switch flipped inside of me and the monster was unleashed. Now I wonder if Yelena is right, if she and I are simply a shade of gray. I wonder if we could be comfortable in a straight-edge life, law abiding and upstanding, never making use of that other part of ourselves.

That summer, she wrote a birthday letter to my daughter that read, “I hope for your birthday you managed to get those grown-ups to give you a dolls’ house and the cardigan and the pony hair brush you wanted. Don’t believe their excuses.” She wrote similar letters to thousands of other people and always in her own hand. The effect was magical. “Please don’t say anything unkind about her. She’s my friend,” our daughter instructed her father. That, I think, explains the extraordinary outpouring of grief we witnessed when Diana died. Her appeal was as simple as it was unique. Diana touched the child in each and every one of us. She wasn’t the “people’s princess”—she was the people’s friend. The words of a London cabbie still ring in my ears when I think about the week after her death. “We’ll never see the like of her again,” he said as he dropped me off near the ocean of flowers outside Buckingham Palace. He was right. —Ingrid Seward

Ingrid Seward Ingrid Seward is editor in chief of Majesty magazine and has been writing about the Royal Family for more than twenty years. She is acknowledged as one of the leading experts in the field and has written ten books on the subject. Her latest book, Diana: The Last Word, with Simone Simmons, will be published in paperback in 2007 by St. Martin’s Press. Although Diana assured me that she was happy and finally felt she had found a real purpose in her life, I could still sense some of her inner turmoil. When we were gossiping, she was relaxed, but when we moved on to more serious matters, such as her treatment by the media, her body language betrayed her anxiety. She wrung her hands and looked at me out of the corner of her starling blue eyes. “No one understands what it is like to be me,” she said. “Not my friends, not anyone.” She admitted, however, that there was a positive side to her unique situation in that she could use her high profile to bring attention to the causes she cared about, and this, she assured me, was what she was doing now and wanted to do in the future. But it was the darker, negative side that she had to live with every day. After all this time, she explained, it still upset her to read untruths about herself, and it was simply not in her nature to ignore it. “It makes me feel insecure, and it is difficult going out and meeting people when I imagine what they might have read about me that morning.” Diana had no idea how much she was loved. To the poor, the sick, the weak, and the vulnerable, she was a touchstone of hope. But her appeal extended much further than that. She had the ability to engage the affections of the young and the old from all walks of life. That summer, she wrote a birthday letter to my daughter that read, “I hope for your birthday you managed to get those grown-ups to give you a doll’s house and the cardigan and the pony hair brush you wanted. Don’t believe their excuses.” She wrote similar letters to thousands of other people and always in her own hand. The effect was magical. “Please don’t say anything unkind about her. She’s my friend,” our daughter instructed her father. That, I think, explains the extraordinary outpouring of grief we witnessed when Diana died. Her appeal was as simple as it was unique. Diana touched the child in each and every one of us. She wasn’t the “people’s princess”--she was the people’s friend. The words of a London cabbie still ring in my ears when I think about the week after her death. “We’ll never see the like of her again,” he said as he dropped me off near the ocean of flowers outside Buckingham Palace. He was right.

Early July 2012 True to his words, questions from Dr. Arius continue to arrive as quickly as I responded to his queries. In one of his emails he wrote: Dear Young, You are certainly diligent in answering my questions. Like you, I had similar experiences with my father in that we had a love/hate relationship. If I am not mistaken Andy’s relationship with his dad was very much the same, am I correct? According to my analysis after years of psychiatric research in the field of homosexuality; close to 80 percent of gay boys had or continue to have love/hate relationships with their fathers. It is often the patriarch who has difficulties accepting the feminine aspect of their own machismo attributes. Patriarchs are often threatened by the effeminine energies that co-exist in all human beings. As is usually the case, when confronted by a gay son/sons or lesbian daughter/daughters, it upsets the traditional supercilious male dominance in the animal hierarchy; thus throwing the father figures off the balance scale. Some dads choose not to deal with their own fears which they unconsciously project onto family members closes to them, especially their homosexual children. On the other hand for those fathers that choose to reject their gay children; disowning their flesh and blood, they are on many occasions afraid to face their own fears head-on. In the majority of cases, throughout my research dads or parents with conventional religious background also have difficulties accepting their homosexual children due to religious indoctrinations. Although we are currently living in a more enlightened moment in the history of mankind, age old customs and traditions continues to exist in conjunction with new ideologies. I believe your stories will assist to further enlighten our society and culture, propelling us humans towards a new dawn to understanding the future. As the saying goes; “It is a necessity to learn from the past to live in the present, in order to choose where we want to go in our future.

Victor, Andy, and I sat waiting at the café within Miss Selfridge (the young fashion section of the department store) for our entourage to finish shopping. I took this opportunity to seek their advice.               “Tad proposed to me at the Oriental Club,” I declared nonchalantly.               “I know,” came Andy’s reply.               Boggled by his response, I questioned, “Why didn’t you ask me about it?” “I was waiting for you to tell me,” he answered. “He also gave you a key to his town house.” Shocked by his knowingness, I exclaimed, “How did you know?” “I know more about you than you,” he teased. Both men laughed at me. I looked at my teacher, confused. “You knew, too?” “Of course I did. I was present when Tad sought your Valet’s permission.” “Why did Tad come to you for permission?” I questioned. Victor promulgated, “Because he’s an honourable gentleman and a true romantic.” Andy nodded in agreement. My chaperone vociferated, “I’m your guardian, so he came to me to ask for your hand.” “Ask for my hand!” I exclaimed. “I’m not planning to marry him…” Before I could continue, my Valet pronounced, “Then it’s settled. You don’t want to be his property.” “I’m nobody’s property but my own!” I cried. The men burst into mirth. “I’m glad you are being sensible. In the Arab culture, being a kept boy is similar to being in a heterosexual marriage. The dominant partner has total control of his ‘wife boy,’” Triqueros commented. “I’m nobody’s ‘wife boy’!” I burst out. “And definitely not Tad’s.” “Very well then. It’s settled that you are not taking up his offer. I’ll convey your sentiments,” Andy finalized. Case closed. “I can tell him myself. I don’t need you to do it for me,” I voiced. Victor cited, “Since you are Andy’s charge, it is appropriate for him to act on your behalf to inform the intended of your decision. It’s customary protocol, as a man asks the father for his daughter’s hand.” I argued, “But I’m not a girl. I’m a boy who can make his own decisions. I am responsible for me!” Both mentors laughed again. “Are you sure about that?” my lover ruffled my hair and sniggered. “You could have fooled me.” My chaperone and I started a playful tug-of-war until my judicious professor put a stop to our silliness. “Young, stop this absurdity,” Triqueros commanded. “As I’d promised, I’m giving you a short lesson about the ‘real’ England. The existing British monarchy.” His words perked my attention.

The story of the mustard seed from the Buddha’s life sprang to mind. A mother lost her young son. She came to the Buddha and pleaded with him to bring him back to life. Other versions of the story say she pleaded to be relieved of her suffering. In any case, the Buddha said, “Yes, I can do that. But first you must bring me a mustard seed from a home where no one has faced a similar loss.” So the woman set out. She went from home to home, knocking on doors and inquiring. It seemed everywhere she went someone in each family had suffered a terrible loss… fathers, daughters, uncles, mothers, friends…Everyone knew the heartbreaking loss of someone beloved. She couldn’t find a soul who hadn’t experienced some devastating pain like hers. In this way she healed the pain from her own loss, and in keeping with the first scenario, realized that despite her great love, there was nothing unique enough about her son to merit his resurrection above all other beings.

Whether they mean to or not, driven parents make their children feel evaluated constantly. An example would be a father who makes his kids practice the piano in front of him so he can point out their mistakes. This kind of excessive oversight often sours children on seeking adult help for anything. As a result, in adulthood they may resist connecting with potential mentors. Certain they know the best way to do things, driven parents sometimes do outlandish things. One mother insisted on going to her adult daughter’s house to pay her bills because she was sure her daughter wouldn’t do it right. Another mother bought her adult son a used car he hadn’t asked for and was hurt when he didn’t want it. And one young man’s father made his son weigh himself every day in front of him when he gained weight. If you think back to the infant attachment studies described at the beginning of this chapter (Ainsworth, Bell, and Stayton 1971, 1974), driven parents seem similar to some of the emotionally insensitive mothers of insecurely attached babies.

It would be inaccurate to suggest Joan Beaufort was merely an emotional character, however; she was, after all, a Lancastrian by blood. Her father Gaunt had incurred severe criticism during his life for associating with, and protecting, members of the early Lollard movement, and a similar religious curiosity seems to have existed in the countess, who also chose to associate with figures widely ostracised by the Church, in her case Margery Kempe, a controversial mystic from Lynn in Norfolk. Kempe became notorious for her alleged visions of Christ and travelled extensively throughout England and beyond discussing her spiritual experiences with anyone willing to abide her company. Her life was later recounted in the Book of Margery Kempe, an extraordinary work considered the first English-language autobiography, and the book includes an episode in which Kempe was forced to defend herself against allegations of inappropriate advice she had supposedly dispensed to the countess and her daughter Elizabeth Greystoke.