Elisabeth is smarter than I am. And calmer. She’s also a far steadier entrepreneur. Unlike me, she doesn’t have to pretend she’s financially independent.

After a few months, she’s already better at writing than I am after several years.

I remember a girl from elementary school I once brought to basketball practice. She picked up the ball and immediately knew what to do with it. After that, I hardly played again.

Back to the present. We’re reading at Scribeton. Everyone praises her texts. Mine less and less.

And yet—maybe precisely because of that—I find myself growing closer to her. Carefully. But closer.

In many ways I’m weaker even than the men around me. With them it doesn’t really matter. In fact, it helps.

With Elisabeth—and with other interesting women I let get close—it’s different. And not just because they don’t drool over me or admire me.

I take stock of all the women who have ever made me feel beautiful and heavy at the same time. My sister. My mother. That’s where it stings.

There’s only room for one queen in a kingdom. Maybe that’s why.

Still, I keep going, quietly wondering whether the ones who hurt the most might also be the most precious.

Cut.

I’m sitting with Elisabeth over Veltliner when suddenly I feel like an aunt again. Not the aunt with the cigar, the sherry, and the elegant gray hair.

Jessica stops by to say hello. She’s so beautiful my heart jumps every time I see her. Not always with joy.

For the rest of the evening I fold inward. Film premiere. Party. Crowds everywhere. I’m ovulating today. I should be radiant.

And yet I can’t even seem to stand up straight. What comes naturally around strong men sometimes feels almost impossible around strong women.

I think of Jane. Teresa. Bohdana. And the women before them. Especially the ones who have been in my family since childhood.

Sometimes it feels as if they’re better at both

—the ball and the pen.

Growing up beside strong women is like growing up in front of a mirror.

You keep seeing it.

And they do too

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