My mother is a 50 something body caught in a 20 something's mind. She lives her life in an imagined reincarnation of the hazy 70s and pretends that she loves me. In reality she doesn't know me, and she hasn't since I was 10. For some inexplicable reasons she's terribly rich and never has to work like normal people. Instead she travels around the world, living a month here and a month there, mostly in New York. The one thing that works to her advantage is that she can wear a Chanel suit like no one else while balancing a glass of wine in one hand and a Gauloise cigarette in the other. If you knew her you would think that's a good thing too.
In the late 70s she and my father traveled by train across Russia where she grew up before going to America on her own. She kept a diary that I found in a closet years later, only with a few pages missing. What was written on them I might never know, but I'm anxious to find out.
(The full story here)