In addition to having three other children, my mother had a full-time job, as a psychiatrist. I never doubted that my mother loved me or that I was important to her, but I rarely felt the radiant force that I imagined the child on the card experiencing: undivided and all-encompassing maternal attention. Her embraces were quick and hard, her eyes focused on the next task in front of her. Her skin was olive, and her arms were naturally sinewy. My mother’s hair was dark, almost black, cut short in the same no-nonsense style for decades. My actual mother was nothing like this woman. She had created a world just for the two of them. She had lustrous golden hair that rippled and encircled the baby. Her pretty profile-delicate nose, long-lashed eyes-was focused entirely on the small, sleeping bundle. The mother’s soft white arms cradled the baby to her bosom. My favorite card had a drawing of a mother and child. Check out more from this issue and find your next story to read.
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