Today's "Modern Love" essay in the NYT—by film producer Kelly Thomas—is not to be missed.

While I focused on grades, test scores and a life beyond rural Texas, my mother fantasized about my wedding to some well-heeled hometown boy who would one day make her a proud grandmother. She envisioned a fancy banquet-style dinner that would put her own spartan wedding ceremony and rec-room punch reception to shame. This time around, as mother of the bride, she’d wear a teal cocktail dress to complement her crystal blue eyes.

In these flights of fancy, she was ebullient and vivacious, the center of attention, while I was cast as her silent enabler. I played my part, believing that I possessed the unique ability to hold her desolation in check. While my father buried himself in the Sisyphean tasks of baling hay and breaking horses, my mother’s moods fluctuated between manic all-night baking marathons and menacing three-day silences. My role was to keep the peace, to somehow quiet her refrain that we’d all be better off without her.

And then one day I’d had it. As she started in again with the wedding plans, I impulsively blurted, “I’m not getting married, and I’m never having children!”

Thomas's story—like life itself—doesn't go where you think it's going to go. RTWT.