The Other Woman

                                                     By Deborah Epperson

I saw her again today,

the other woman in my life.

I was with my daughter, sharing family secrets,

when I heard the other woman’s voice

repeating my words

mocking me, taunting me,

daring me to deny her presence once again.

The first time I saw her, I turned away.

“She’s not real,” I told myself.

“Just the imagination of a middle-aged wife and mother.”

But then, I saw her again in the dress shop,

checking prices first, sizes second.

“Go away,” I ordered. “You’re not welcome here.”

After all, I know who I am, what I like,

and how best to get through the day.

She laughed and said, “Get used to it, honey.

I’m here to stay.”

With each passing year, her intrusions continued,

less subtle, more frequent.

Until at last, I grew weary

of fighting her inevitable presence.

Her influence, I could no longer deny.

More and more, her mannerisms seep inside me.

Qualities I once ridiculed now demand my belated respect.

So in grateful defeat, I wrap myself in her cloak,

letting her wisdom and memories merge with my own

until they are one.

Yes, I saw her again today,

the other woman in my life.

I saw my mother . . . in me.