On Mother’s Day, in front of our entire extended family, my mom raised her glass, looked me straight in the eye, and announced to the room, “I wish you’d never been my daughter.” I stood up, answered, “Then live as if you never had one,” and drove away in my SUV. By the next morning, my phone was ringing nonstop—and suddenly, the same relatives who sat in silence desperately wanted me to answer.
At the head of the table sat my mother, Diane Whitmore. She wore the pearl necklace I had bought her for her sixtieth birthday and a serene, almost pious expression …
On Mother’s Day, in front of our entire extended family, my mom raised her glass, looked me straight in the eye, and announced to the room, “I wish you’d never been my daughter.” I stood up, answered, “Then live as if you never had one,” and drove away in my SUV. By the next morning, my phone was ringing nonstop—and suddenly, the same relatives who sat in silence desperately wanted me to answer. Read More