in their midst all her life, until she married Lawrence and escaped the family she had nothing in common with. But Winnie was just like them, serious, austere, nervous, humorless, critical, and most of the time cold. She was a dignified woman, always concerned with doing the right thing, but never a warm one. There was nothing spontaneous about her, and she had grown up to be just like her mother. Valerie loved her sister anyway, and had managed to forge a strong bond with her. Valerie spoke to Winnie almost every day, and listened to her complain, often about her daughter Penny, who was more like Valerie than her own mother.
Penny was an attorney, with three children of her own, who Winnie thought were rude, unruly, and undisciplined, and she had never liked her son-in-law either. Winnie needed an orderly, peaceful life, unlike her younger sister Valerie, who was open to all possibilities and led what Winnie considered a bohemian life, as their mother had said about her too. But Winnie was more tolerant of her than their mother had been. Valerie had never been able to scale the walls her mother built around her, and eventually gave up, long before she died. She had never approved of her youngest daughter and made that clear. And with a husband and child she adored, Valerie had stopped caring about her mother’s disapproval years before. She didn’t miss her when she died, although Winnie had mourned her for years, and spoke of their mother as if she had been a saint. And Valerie understood even less, when she had her own child, how her mother hadn’t been able to view her arrival as an unexpected blessing rather than a curse.
Valerie’s family had been a mystery to her all her life, even Winnie, of whom she forgave much even now, and she often made jokes about having been switched at birth at the hospital with some other family. The greatest difference between them was that Valerie was a warm, loving person, and her parents and even her sister were ice cold. She thought of it as unfortunate for them, and was grateful that her son had inherited none of their traits. Nor had her niece Penny, who was a very sweet girl and a very successful lawyer. She was ten years older than her cousin Phillip, and they were good friends, more like sister and brother since both were only children, and she often called her aunt Valerie for advice, rather than dealing with Winnie, which was always a no-win for her, in the face of her mother’s criticism of everything she did, including a law degree from Harvard, which her mother thought was inappropriately ambitious for a woman. Penny was a better mother than Winnie claimed. Her philosophies about childrearing were similar to her aunt’s. Winnie was hopelessly old-fashioned in her outlook, whereas Valerie was full of life and always willing to embrace anything new.
When Phillip arrived for dinner on Sunday night, Valerie was cleaning her brushes and had just finished painting. She was working on a portrait of a woman that had a mystical quality to it, and Phillip stood staring at it for a long time. Valerie had real talent as a painter, her gallery shows got good reviews, and all her pieces sold. She was represented by a respected gallery near her apartment in SoHo. They had lived there for as long as Phillip remembered, long before it became fashionable. And she enjoyed how lively it had become, and all the young people who lived there. She compared it to the Left Bank in Paris.
“I like your new painting, Mom,” he said admiringly. It was a subtle change from her previous work. She was always pushing herself to grow as an artist, and studying new techniques.
“I’m not sure where I’m going with it. I had a dream about it the other night. The woman in it has been haunting me. It’s driving me crazy,” she said with a broad smile, looking happy and untroubled. The smell of her paints was heavy in the apartment, it was a familiar part of the artistic ambiance around her, along
Penny was an attorney, with three children of her own, who Winnie thought were rude, unruly, and undisciplined, and she had never liked her son-in-law either. Winnie needed an orderly, peaceful life, unlike her younger sister Valerie, who was open to all possibilities and led what Winnie considered a bohemian life, as their mother had said about her too. But Winnie was more tolerant of her than their mother had been. Valerie had never been able to scale the walls her mother built around her, and eventually gave up, long before she died. She had never approved of her youngest daughter and made that clear. And with a husband and child she adored, Valerie had stopped caring about her mother’s disapproval years before. She didn’t miss her when she died, although Winnie had mourned her for years, and spoke of their mother as if she had been a saint. And Valerie understood even less, when she had her own child, how her mother hadn’t been able to view her arrival as an unexpected blessing rather than a curse.
Valerie’s family had been a mystery to her all her life, even Winnie, of whom she forgave much even now, and she often made jokes about having been switched at birth at the hospital with some other family. The greatest difference between them was that Valerie was a warm, loving person, and her parents and even her sister were ice cold. She thought of it as unfortunate for them, and was grateful that her son had inherited none of their traits. Nor had her niece Penny, who was a very sweet girl and a very successful lawyer. She was ten years older than her cousin Phillip, and they were good friends, more like sister and brother since both were only children, and she often called her aunt Valerie for advice, rather than dealing with Winnie, which was always a no-win for her, in the face of her mother’s criticism of everything she did, including a law degree from Harvard, which her mother thought was inappropriately ambitious for a woman. Penny was a better mother than Winnie claimed. Her philosophies about childrearing were similar to her aunt’s. Winnie was hopelessly old-fashioned in her outlook, whereas Valerie was full of life and always willing to embrace anything new.
When Phillip arrived for dinner on Sunday night, Valerie was cleaning her brushes and had just finished painting. She was working on a portrait of a woman that had a mystical quality to it, and Phillip stood staring at it for a long time. Valerie had real talent as a painter, her gallery shows got good reviews, and all her pieces sold. She was represented by a respected gallery near her apartment in SoHo. They had lived there for as long as Phillip remembered, long before it became fashionable. And she enjoyed how lively it had become, and all the young people who lived there. She compared it to the Left Bank in Paris.
“I like your new painting, Mom,” he said admiringly. It was a subtle change from her previous work. She was always pushing herself to grow as an artist, and studying new techniques.
“I’m not sure where I’m going with it. I had a dream about it the other night. The woman in it has been haunting me. It’s driving me crazy,” she said with a broad smile, looking happy and untroubled. The smell of her paints was heavy in the apartment, it was a familiar part of the artistic ambiance around her, along
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