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Good Things in Three Three times where Miranda Priestly admit the truth to herself
There are some days where I imagine that to be able to love someone else, you must be taught. If not taught, then at least, shown. And perhaps this window of opportunity to learn passes without notice, or perhaps it existed and you never knew.
Whatever the reason is, it's never learned and you're left grasping at straws that can bring cold if not no comfort to anyone. Just like there is that disconnect between wanting something and actively seeking it out; love now seems like some ephemeral notion -- not quite all hearts and fluff, but nothing that has a frame of reference in this life either.
Even the twins seem to be an anomaly more than anyone else, or perhaps I have taught them well not to expect demonstrative gestures from me. It is much easier to keep everyone else at a distance, all the better to keep any vulnerabilities hidden from view. Certainly, the number that would love to take advantage of any perceived crack in the Dragon Lady has only increased over the years.
She had made no promises to love Stephen (forever), or to honor and respect him. Simple civil vows only concerned themselves with legality and not love. It was always the economy of words that increased their importance. Her words meant exactly what she wanted them to mean -- chosen with care, and spoken just loud enough to be heard and no more than that.
Her second marriage was almost cordial -- at least in the early days, both of them carrying schedules that demanded of their time more than each other had ever mentioned. As time passed, Stephen had expected her to change her patterns to spend evenings with him. This would have been laughable were it not such a bone of contention. She had made no promise to forego her work for him, and had exacted no vow from him for the same.
Even though it had taken more than fifty years to finally get to this point -- at least it had happened; as opposed to the first fifty -- which had been filled with denial and self-suppression. Even if she'd never been taught, or even shown, how to love another, she knew that over the last fifteen, she had at least learned how; first with raising her daughters, and now this.
Names, much like words, when spoken, gave them power. Miranda was not certain what the trend of nicknames and diminutives meant for herself, but recognized the need for the nature of language to change. Everyone else may have used the more casual 'Andy' but 'Andrea' was a beautiful name on its own and needed no abridgment. As time passed, Miranda realized that she remained the only one to address her as 'Andrea' even though others might have tried the same. Andrea always suggested with a gentle grin to 'please call her "Andy."'
It wasn't until much later when Miranda was finally able to put a name to what she felt, that she realized, unconsciously, she had ceded both the word and the title to Andrea -- one that she'd never thought she'd understand, nor learn, or even be able to share with someone other than her daughters. Love.
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