She found herself wishing, pointlessly, that her mother had told her more: told her which path to follow when she couldn’t decide whether or not to pursue her music. Told her the truth about Owen. Told her that her own marriage hadn’t always been perfect, hadn’t always been easy. But that would have made Veronica Levy a different kind of person; certainly a different kind of mother. A mother who hovered and directed and micromanaged; a mother who cleared every obstacle out of the way before her child could come close to stumbling, who’d never let her kid struggle to figure it out for herself.
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