This is one very complex relationship. Following is an excerpt from a little book I self-published a few years ago. I wrote about this relationship in third person.
Emily opened her mother’s dresser drawer. Lipstick. Emily removed the cap and screwed the glossy stick up and down several times. Red, red, red. She dabbed a little on her lips and smeared it on with her little finger, almost instantly grabbing a tissue to blot it away. She plied open the powder compact and puffed some on the back of her hand. The rouge–everything so red. She stared, trance-like, remembering how she once peeked through the crack of her mother’s bedroom door as she got ready for church on a Sunday.
Severina stood there in her white slip, slightly full of figure, pretty. Her black, thick, chin-length, waved hair did not fall forward as she leaned to pull on her nylon stockings. She always wore white gloves when she put on her nylons. Once the stockings were buckled onto the garter belt, Severina smoothed her slip and drew her navy blue and white polka dot dress over her head. The dress flattered her rounded figure. Severina leaned into the mirror and carefully applied the red lipstick; blot and then reapply. She outlined her lips creating the perfect bow mouth.
Emily closed the rouge case and returned all the makeup to its proper place. She slid the second drawer open. Before she could finger the pearl necklace or inspect the sapphire ring, she heard the click of the latch downstairs. Quickly, she closed the drawer, shut the bedroom door and returned to her lower bunk bed in the shared bedroom at the other end of the hallway. She feigned reading her book.
Who was this woman she called “mommy”, she wondered.
Have you written about your relationship with your own mother?
Blessings to all the mothers…their work in the world is priceless.