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I can’t tell you how I feel. One minute I’m longing for peace and quiet, and the next for a little fun. We’ve forgotten how to laugh—I mean, laughing so hard you can’t stop.

This morning I had “the giggles”; you know, the kind we used to have at school. Margot and I were giggling like real teenagers.

Last night there was another scene with Mother. Margot was tucking her wool blanket around her when suddenly she leapt out of bed and carefully examined the blanket. What do you think she found? A pin! Mother had patched the blanket and forgotten to take it out. Father shook his head meaningfully and made a comment about how careless Mother is. Soon afterward Mother came in from the bathroom, and just to tease her I said, “Du bist doch eine echte Rabenmutter.”15

Of course, she asked me why I’d said that, and we told her about the pin she’d overlooked. She immediately assumed her haughtiest expression and said, “You’re a fine one to talk. When you’re sewing, the entire floor is covered with pins. And look, you’ve left the manicure set lying around again. You never put that away either!”

I said I hadn’t used it, and Margot backed me up, since she was the guilty party.

Mother went on talking about how messy I was until I got fed up and said, rather curtly, “I wasn’t even the one who said you were careless. I’m always getting blamed for other people’s mistakes!”

Mother fell silent, and less than a minute later I was obliged to kiss her good-night. This incident may not have been very important, but these days everything gets on my nerves.

As I seem to be going through a period of reflection at the moment and letting my mind range over anything and everything, my thoughts have naturally turned to Father and Mother’s marriage. It has always been presented to me as an ideal marriage. Never a quarrel, no angry faces, perfect harmony, etc., etc.

I know a few things about Father’s past, and what I don’t know, I’ve made up; I have the impression that Father married Mother because he felt she would be a suitable wife. I have to admit I admire Mother for the way she assumed the role of his wife and has never, as far as I know, complained or been jealous. It can’t be easy for a loving wife to know she’ll never be first in her husband’s affections, and Mother did know that. Father certainly admired Mother’s attitude and thought she had an excellent character. Why marry anyone else? His ideals had been shattered and his youth was over. What kind of marriage has it turned out to be? No quarrels or differences of opinion—but hardly an ideal marriage. Father respects Mother and loves her, but not with the kind of love I envision for a marriage. Father accepts Mother as she is, is often annoyed, but says as little as possible, because he knows the sacrifices Mother has had to make.

Father doesn’t always ask her opinion—about the business, about other matters, about people, about all kinds of things. He doesn’t tell her everything, because he knows she’s far too emotional, far too critical, and often far too biased. Father’s not in love. He kisses her the way he kisses us. He never holds her up as an example, because he can’t. He looks at her teasingly, or mockingly, but never lovingly. It may be that Mother’s great sacrifice has made her harsh and disagreeable toward those around her, but it’s guaranteed to take her even farther from the path of love, to arouse even less admiration, and one day Father is bound to realize that while, on the outside, she has never demanded his total love, on the inside, she has slowly but surely been crumbling away. She loves him more than anyone, and it’s hard to see this kind of love not being returned.

So should I actually feel more sympathy for Mother? Should I help her? And Father?—I can’t, I’m always imagining another mother. I just can’t.—How could I? She hasn’t told me anything about herself, and I’ve never asked her to. What do we know of each other’s thoughts? I can’t talk to her, I can’t look lovingly into those cold eyes, I can’t. Not ever!—If she had even one quality an understanding