Knowing that she had not murdered her son, knowing perhaps that she
could have, Rhiannon preferred to carry her burden rather than argue
whose it was. Seven years she sat by the mounting block and lied
about herself, telling the story they wanted to hear, the ballad of
the bad mother. They never saw her rage or her tears; her fists were
clenched beneath her knees. Did she recognize the child another
woman had fed for seven years? All we know is that she named him
anxiety.
Antinous for Everybody 