My uterus aches when I stand in front of the oven. My darling baby, Marie, has discovered radium again, at the age of ten years old. To be surpassed by my own daughter! I hide in my room after quarrelling with her lout of a father, Gaston. My daughter discovers radioactive metals all the time and I refuse to let her father touch me as a result. She discovers metals and what do I do? I clean the house and flood my storm drains with Monsieur Leveaux's red wine. Marie doesn't want to see her dear maman, would rather retire to her laboratory and search for particle decay. I squirrel off to the terrace with a slice of pecan pie and think about what I never accomplished because of her. If only I'd been sterile when I met Gaston. I'd still be in Provence; a farmer's daughter sunning myself in the fields, a book of mathematics in front of my nose. I'd have educated myself and become a chemist, like little Marie. As it stands, I'm just her washerwoman.