Member-only story
THE NARRATIVE ARC
Mom Learned To Love Me Again
Our relationship got healthier, but it took years and I needed to change
I was not my mother’s favorite child. I was the middle kid — the brown-haired girl. Mom was fiercely loving and protective of all of us, and I can’t imagine a better mom — but I know she looked at me as an oversized duckling.
Beauty is only skin-deep, my grandparents reminded me (a bit too often). My siblings fared better. My sister, a tiny sprite of a girl with golden-blonde hair and blue eyes, was clearly Mom’s child.
When we shopped for winter coats, Sis put on a camel-brown coat with white faux fur. Everyone in the store paused to admire the pretty blonde who posed like a model. Mom beamed. Murmurs of admiration filled the space.
I put on a thick cobalt blue coat with black trim. “Now that should keep you warm!” Dad boomed, “Will you look at that!”
No one murmured or watched me. The message couldn’t have been clearer.
My brother Warren was a boy with curly hair and blue eyes. As the baby of the family, he was adorable. And as it goes in some families, he was favored for his gender. Warren died in 1979, when he was eighteen. I was nineteen then, and my sister was twenty-one.