We circulated, all of us raising for the first time the question that had sprouted in our minds during the past several years. I made the astonishing discovery that not one of Donna Mitchell's sons cared for the career that had been chosen for him. The experiment had been a resounding flop. Late that evening, after Mother had gone to bed, we remained together, discussing our predicament. How could we tell her? How could we destroy her life's work? And yet, how could we compel ourselves to lives of unending drudgery? Robert wanted to study engineering; Barry, to write. I realized I cared much more for law than for history, while Leonard longed to exchange law for the physical sciences. James, our banker-manque, much preferred politics. And so it went, with Richard (who claimed five robberies, a rape, and innumerable picked pockets) pouring out his desire to settle down and live within the law as an honest farmer. It was pathetic. Summing up the problem in his neat forensic way, Leonard said, "Here's our dilemma: do we all keep quiet about this and ruin our lives, or do we speak up and ruin Mother's experiment?" "I think we ought to continue as is, for the time being," Saul said. "Perhaps Mother will die in the next year or two. We can start over then." "Perhaps she _doesn't_ die?" Edward wanted to know. "She's tough as nails. She may last another twenty or thirty or even forty years." "And we're past twenty-one already," remarked Raymond. "If we hang on too long at what we're doing, it'll be too late to change. You can't start studying for a new profession when you're thirty-five." "Maybe we'll get to _like_ what we're doing, by then," suggested David hopefully. "Diplomatic service isn't as bad as all that, and I'd say--" "What about me?" Paul yelped. "I can't paint and I know I can't paint. I've got nothing but starvation ahead of me unless I wise up and get into business in a hurry. You want me to keep messing up good white canvas the rest of my life?" "It won't work," said Barry, in a doleful voice, "We'll have to tell her." Douglas shook his head. "We can't do that. You know just what she'll do. She'll bring down the umpteen volumes of notes she's made on this experiment, and ask us if we're going to let it all come to naught." "He's right," Albert said. "I can picture the scene now. The big organ-pipe voice blasting us for our lack of faith, the accusations of ingratitude--" "Ingratitude?" William shouted. "She twisted us and pushed us and molded us without asking our permission. Hell, she _created_ us with her laboratory tricks. But that didn't give her the right to make zombies out of us." "Still," Martin said, "we can't just go to her and tell her that it's all over. The shock would kill her." "Well?" Richard asked in the silence that followed. "What's wrong with that?" For a moment, no one spoke. The house was quiet; we heard footsteps descending the stairs. We froze.