INT: A SMALL ROOM IN A NURSING HOME
HEATHER, an unhappy woman in her eighties, is being visited by her middle-aged daughter.
(sourly, in response)
And just what the hell is that supposed to mean, "It'll get better?" What the hell would you know? You know, they said that to me when Frank divorced me thirty years ago. "Oh, it'll get better, Heather. The best years of your life are still ahead of you!" That's what they said to me, a grown woman of fifty-three with four children. Ridiculous.
And of course, they weren't ahead of me. Nothing was, except this. And ooh, isn't this place exciting. Managers telling you you can't dance to the music and nurses talking to you like you're four years old.
I shouldn't blame you, Sarah. You got that insipid phrase straight from me. Lord, I saw you bawling your eyes out when you were thirteen over some idiot boy, and I gave you that meaningless drivel—"It gets better—the best years of your life are ahead of you." Well, it's true enough in the broadest sense, but no one talks comparatives. Yes, your twenties are comparatively better than your teens, but your teens are worse than anything else that ever happens to you.
Except this. There is no coming back from a place like this. If by "best years" they meant "most pudding cups," then I guess, yes, these are the best years of my life.