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on the bib of her apron. She was very pleased with the result. The dress and apron were now almost pretty. It gave her a great feeling of satisfaction to be able to transform something ugly into something almost wearable.
    When her grand-mère saw her she was indignant.
    â€œWhat have you done to your good clothes? Well, you’ll have to live with them. I have no money to waste on buying you new ones.”
    Several months later Berthe awoke to find her nightgown and bedsheets stained with blood.
Am I dying? So young?
Then she realizedwhat it was. Her mother had called it the Curse without ever explaining it. Why had she called it that? Did it, as Berthe suspected at the time, have something to do with falling in love with the wrong man and having your heart broken? Whenever her mother was struck with the Curse she took to her bed for a week.
    â€œWhat’s wrong, Maman?” Berthe asked during one of these weeklong convalescences.
    â€œAsk your father. He’s the doctor,” her mother said, turning her back and pulling the duvet over her head.
    When Berthe was finally able to get a few moments with her father he explained everything in his clinical way: “The Curse is another name for a woman’s menses. It is the circulatory connection between a woman’s body and mind. Thus, a woman must bleed freely once a month; failing to do so will create a form of mental disorder. Similarly, she must remain quiet and calm during this time. It’s been scientifically proven that any strong emotion can cause menstrual obstruction, which can lead to insanity and death.”
    â€œEvery single month, Papa?”
    â€œEvery single month, child. That, you see, is the curse of being a woman.”
    â€œOh” was all she could think of to say. She had more questions, like what was the curse of being a man? But her father was busy and shooed her away.
    Now, in her grand-mère’s attic without a father to ask or a mother to guide her, she lay in her bed afraid to move. She tried to keep her mind calm and her anxiety at bay just in case what her father said was true. She didn’t want to get her first Curse and go insane all on the same day.
    Her grand-mère’s head suddenly appeared in the open hatch of the attic floor.
    â€œPerhaps you would like breakfast in bed. Or would you prefer to sleep until noon? Just let me know and I’ll tell Cook to stop boiling your egg.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Grand-mère.” Berthe sat up. She tried to conceal her nightgown and stained sheets. But it was too late.
    â€œOh, for heaven’s sake,” her grand-mère snapped. “Go and soak everything in cold water.” Berthe slipped out of bed, keeping her back to the old woman.
    â€œOf course I have no rags. Why would I ever think to keep rags? You’ll have to tear up one of my nice old sheets. A perfectly good sheet, torn up …” She continued grumbling as she descended the ladder to the floor below.
    Berthe took off her nightgown, wrapped it in the soiled sheet, and brought everything downstairs. Her grand-mère was at the stove boiling the morning coffee. She scowled at the bundle in Berthe’s arms and Berthe ducked her head in embarrassment.
    Her stomach hurt. It was a deep-down tender ache. For some reason it made her long for her mother. And that was the truly painful part. Because what would her mother have done if she were alive? She thought of Félicité, the maid, whom she ran to whenever she was hurt or upset. She realized now that Félicité had been paid to watch over her, to act as if she cared. She remembered once as a small child encountering Félicité in the small park in Yonville on the maid’s day off. She was walking with a new beau. Berthe ran up to her and Félicité acted as if she didn’t know her. Or didn’t want to know her. Remembering this now, Berthe was filled with sadness. Had she really been so