literature, theater—was in part the pursuit of something as simple as my mother’s gaze, a gaze she gave happily to books. Was it a coincidence I, too, had sought the comfort of books as a child? Wasn’t I seeking her attention? Isn’t that what I really wanted as I would sidle up to her warm body on the couch as she read, a book of my own in hand? So many times, I didn’t even read, I just pretended to, wanting to be close to her. I vividly recall one snowy afternoon, the bright winter glare reflected in my mother’s eyes as they scanned page after page, and me, watching her sidelong, jealous of
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