“Everything you do is interesting to me,” she says, tears springing with the kind of reckless fatalism of somebody who won’t be here tomorrow; a deathbed proclamation, a call from a hijacked plane. A woman who can connect and connect and connect with her son, but it doesn’t matter, it won’t last. “I have never loved anybody as much as I love you. Never will,” she says plainly, her eyes wet. “I got it wrong. If I don’t show you that. Because it is so true – it is the truest thing.”
Cry
