Becoming Wicked

The hum of LaGuardia airport always grated on my nerves, a crude assault on my refined sensibilities. This latest pilgrimage, ostensibly for the Big River Symphony – a mere pretense, of course – was solely for my benefit. I had insisted, and my daughter-in-laws would obey. Tara, Sam’s wife, with her transparently selfish motivations, feigned enthusiasm. Broadway, "retail therapy"... such trivial pursuits. I saw through her meager charade. She thought herself so worldly compared to me. Yet they all craved my approval, my benevolence, Tara, the one who always sought to chip away at my authority. She'd succumb.

The loft cocktail party was a glittering cage of elegant conversations and hollow smiles. I observed Tara, a predatory gleam in my eyes, as she glided through the room, charming strangers. How dare she possess such effortless grace? Every laugh, every nuanced gesture, I dissected, measured, assessed. My other daughter-in-law, Monica, a predictable shadow, drifted meekly, her polite smile a flimsy shield for her discomfort. Tara, in her misguided attempt at kinship, tried to draw her in, but Monica's gaze, darting nervously towards me, betrayed her true allegiance. Good. She knows her place.

Later, in the suffocating confines of our shared hotel room, the tendrils of my paranoia tightened. "Should we push the dresser against the door?" I rasped, my voice a grave whisper, my eyes scanning every crevice for unseen threats. Tara, the insufferable one, merely blinked. "Susan, no one’s coming in here." Her flippant dismissal ignited a spark of cold fury. "And if they do, they’re more likely to go after Monica or me first. I’ll sleep by the door," she added, dripping with sarcasm—insolent girl. I caught the flicker of amusement that passed between her and Monica, a silent rebellion I would not tolerate. This suffocating world, devoid of my control, was pure, unadulterated chaos. My vigilance was not a choice; it was a necessity. My grip is the only thing that holds their flimsy families' lives together.

I could feel Tara's gaze on me, those questioning eyes trying to unravel my magnificent complexity. She sought to find weakness, to attribute my strength to "fear or insecurity." Pathetic. Let her try to soften her view; it would not alter the immutable truth of my power. My behavior required no excuse, only acceptance.

The following day, I bestowed upon them a thousand dollars each, a generous gesture that should have elicited groveling gratitude. Yet, as always, my insightful critiques were met with resistance. Tara dared to covet a charcoal cashmere shawl. "Three hundred dollars for a scarf?" My scoff was a whip-crack, meant to sting. Then, Monica, the mouse, found a sliver of defiance. "If she likes it, why not? I’d like one too." The audacity. And Tara, emboldened by this fleeting alliance, declared, "I like it. And I’m getting it." My silence was a crushing weight, my pursed lips a silent decree of disapproval. Let them revel in their "small victory." It was only a brief pause in the battle. When Tara calmly announced, "I’m heading to Saks and Barney’s. I’ll meet you back at the hotel," I merely allowed a frown to mar my perfect composure. She thinks she can escape my influence. She doesn’t know she will never win with me; I am the sole authority in this family.

Later in the afternoon, the moment of reckoning. I returned to our room, my latest acquisition—a magnificent Judith Leiber handbag—gleaming like a trophy. Monica, a dutiful satellite, trailed behind me, her arms laden with the spoils of my generosity, each item meticulously approved by my discerning eye. The message to Tara was etched in the air: Compliance is rewarded, independence is punished. I savored the strain on Tara’s face, the slight tremble in her hand as she set down her meager purchases. Each interaction, each subtle power play, chipped away at her spirit, leaving her physically and emotionally depleted. I would win at all costs. When would she finally cease her futile struggles and accept my dominion?

That night, at the newly opened Broadway show, Wicked. Elphaba's misunderstood complexity unfolded, a mirror to my own unjust persecution. Tara, lost in her own feeble thoughts, dared to ponder my story. Was I like Elphaba, shaped by a terrible childhood into this formidable, critical, controlling force? Let her wonder. Let her soften her view. It meant nothing. Tara had too many thoughts for her own good. If only she would conform to my wisdom, her life would be infinitely better.

Back home, as Tara recounted her grievances to Sam, I could practically hear their whispers. "I can’t keep doing this, Sam," she whined, her voice heavy with self-pity. "Every time I hope it’ll be different, it’s the same—your mother’s rules, her criticisms, her control of everything." My grip is the only thing holding their lives together! Sam, spineless Sam, merely nodded, "I know. I’ve let it go on too long." He dared to defy me? "I thought keeping the peace protected us, but it’s not."

Then came the inevitable: the true motivation was laid bare - my money. "Do you think she’d cut us off?" Tara asked softly, her voice betraying her fear. Ah, there it is. "Maybe," Sam conceded. "But it’s not just that. It’s the guilt, the obligation. I was raised to believe loyalty to my parents comes first." Finally, a glimmer of sense.

But then, the poison spread. Tara, reaching for his hand, whispered, "Then we’ll change it. For the boys. For us." His face softened, a spark of defiance igniting in his weary eyes. "It’s time we do things our way."

How dumb are they? As Tara lay beside him, dreaming of their children "free from burdens," I knew their foolish rebellion would fall apart. They can't rewrite the past, nor can they escape my influence. Their "turning point" was just a detour on the road back to my control. Tara would learn, eventually, that true power and proper stability only belonged to me. Sam would never dare to oppose me. And I, Susan, the architect of their lives, would be waiting.