When something borrowed makes you blue

At first she found it cute, her daughters borrowing her stuff. Validating, too: they were teens, after all. But in time, Rachel would become increasingly frustrated.

“You girls seen my black cardie?” she’d yell down the hall.

“And where’s my mascara, the good one?” she’d ask, only for them to shrug, only for an argument to ensue, only for Rachel to find what she was looking for atop a messy dresser, or within a crumpled heap, in one of their bedrooms.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

The girls looked better in her things than she ever did.

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