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Saw my mother for the first time in 4 years yesterday; last time we met, I had a different name.
She’s living in a cottage behind a couple’s house in Atherton. It is, in keeping with her talents, a most-impeccably decorated abode: museum-quality miniature living; an art project in filling space.
I’ve inherited some of her talent; we crawled around on the floor with tape measures, discussing the prospective presence of a new coffee table—how the light will affect it over the course of a day.
@pauline has occasionally said that there’s a lot of my mother in me. I want to bristle at that: my mother was not—by any means or metric—a good mother. But she does make more sense to me post-transition than she ever did before.
And, I think, I do to her too.