The magazine arrived on a Tuesday, wrapped in brown butcher paper and tied with kitchen twine. Alison Mutha, who had started the thing on a whim and a prayer in her cramped Philadelphia apartment, held it like a newborn.
The cover story that issue was called "The Sacred Mess." It was about how the pressure to be a perfect mother is a form of patriarchal control. Martha read it while sipping her morning coffee. She snorted at the Lego comic. She cried at the essay about post-partum rage. She had felt that rage forty years ago, alone, with no name for it.
She laughed. It was a wet, cracked, real laugh.
The book club was composed of six women between the ages of 68 and 82. They passed the copies around like contraband. By Friday, Martha had written Alison a letter, handwritten in looping cursive:
And the name Alison Mutha ? It stopped being just a name. It became a verb.
Dear Alison Mutha, I don’t know who you are, but you have written the thing I have been swallowing for fifty years. Enclosed is a check for $200. Print another one. Tell the truth again.