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by
Dani Shapiro
Read between
November 1 - November 11, 2023
I didn’t have much to say to my mother. I never really had. Our life as mother and daughter had been fraught and contentious, devoid of the easy love I felt for my father.
I had read dozens of books over the years ranging from complex psychoanalytic tomes to straight-up self-help as I tried to navigate the difficulties of being my mother’s daughter.
It is a measure of true adulthood that we are able to imagine our parents as the people they may have been before us.

