In the ritual of Mother's Day Poem by Véronique Pittolo

In the ritual of Mother's Day, clothes are ironed, faces made attractive, family united, nothing dramatic. Home life is reduced to meals and times, a hem that's waiting to be turned. Everyone survives between four walls, it isn't much, yet for a few it means a lot, the child as an extension of the mother, scion of the father. In spite of everything, they'll make him into someone. The girl will want to compensate for every woman's sacrifice. While her mother cooks the meal she sees her tiredness, by evening, in the kitchen. She'd like to open up the wound, observe the duckling's wing and lay it gently on the ground.

If you're the ugly one, you'll see your family from the outside.