The Mother archetype is, “the fish head's my favorite, I love eating the eyes. You have the body, I don’t even like it. Let me take it off the bones for you. The eyes are my favorite.” It’s a lie, but that's Mother to me. Not perfect, not always good, harmonious, or even happy. It’s name calling and not calling, but mostly it’s generational healing through the resolve of love. “I look like my mother”: When she saw this she said, “I thought that was me!” We look like her mother. Like the ED her mother gave her, she quietly watered down for me. Like my grandmother’s jewelry, dispersed and shared. We improve together. “We can’t handle it”: An ant pheromone death spiral marches over a lonely body. I’ve watched the spectrum of selflessness to self-denial pick at my mother. The pain of nursing against cracked, chapped, and bleeding nipples every couple of hours. My mother is everything her mother should have been, everything my father should have been, and everything she could have been.