My mother is a 50 something body caught in a 20 something's mind, living her life in an imagined reincarnation of the hazy 70's. She pretends like she loves me but in reality she doesn't know me at all.
For some inexplicable reasons she's incredibly rich and never worked like normal people. Instead she travels around the world, staying a month here and a month there, mostly in New York. The one thing that works to her advantage is the way she looks in a Chanel suit 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 escaping 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. I keep this blog because she wouldn't pay for a therapist. I'm guessing she's afraid of what they would find.
(The full story here)