Mother and daughter relationship story

The top 10 stories of mothers and daughters | Books | The Guardian

mother and daughter relationship story

Mother-daughter relationships are complicated and fascinating. It is an emotionally charged story of love, loss and resilience, a family history. Mother-daughter relationship also is complicated in those two articles. In No Name Woman, the mother tells the daughter a story about her aunt and do not allow. It's true that the bond between a mother and a daughter is something special. This Mother's Day, let your mom know how truly loved she is with.

She hires a psychic and a private detective to try and piece together what really happened. My Name is Lucy Barton by Elizabeth Strout Lucy Barton is recovering from an operation when her estranged mother comes to see her in the hospital. The two slowly reconnect: What starts as seemingly trivial conversation becomes the gateway for unpacking long-held tensions.

Missing Mom by Joyce Carol Oates Nikki Eaton is a reporter for a small town newspaper in her thirties living life on her terms. When her widowed mother, Gwen is killed in a random act of violence, the loss impacts Nikki more than she ever saw coming.

She goes on to explore the sense of abandonment that followed her for years. Her long road to healing began with their reunion a decade later. She fell into a coma a few days later; this memoir is the autobiography that Allende wrote for her.

Allende breathes magical life into the cast of characters in her stories, who are seemingly plucked from the pages of House of Spirits. Life throws a wrench in her plans as she travels westward to settle in Tucson, Arizona; she meets a three-year-old Native American girl named Turtle and finds herself having to raise her.

Naked except for a frayed lime-green towel around her middle, her mother knocks her on the head several times, each one harder, and tells her to scrub her hands. My mother thinks she looks like an angry vegetable. This is when my mother is the youngest child, and her siblings are all in school. My mother trails behind watching the orange skirt hem fall behind and catch up with round, pink calves. Her mother does not ask her to hold her hand.

My mother stares at a painting of an owl on a tree limb. I return home from school to find The Texas Chain Saw Massacre on the kitchen counter, a fresh bottle of vodka next to it. Texas Chain Saw is our favorite.

mother and daughter relationship story

Slasher films mean one of two things, either a really good day or a really bad day. The skin under her eyes is yellow. I unscrew the top off the vodka, get a bottle of tonic from the pantry, and set out two glasses. I put three ice cubes in each, fill them half way up with vodka, the rest tonic. I pass her a glass. I took night classes while working full-time and raising you, and all by myself. I show her a pizza from the freezer and wait for a nod, which she gives.

We put in Texas Chain Saw and each curl up in our own blankets at opposite ends of the couch. A few times our feet accidentally touch through the blankets, and we bounce off each other.

We like being sucked up inside ourselves, safe in our own salty warmth.

The top 10 stories of mothers and daughters

I saw the house she grew up in just once. This was also the only time I ever saw my grandparents. My mother took me to visit them the Christmas before her father died. The living room was like a place deep under the ground. Whenever I thought about being buried alive, usually I thought no oxygen, bones desperate for space, and the worst kind of aloneness you could imagine. But being buried alive with other people, your family, and the smell of them as they suck up oxygen that could have been yours: Three scrawny, hairless dogs were piled on top of each other in a round bed next to the television.

mother and daughter relationship story

The house smelled like hairless dog skin. The rest of the house was closed doors with thick, mottled glass, so that all I could see were faint shadows.

10 Great Books about Mother-Daughter Relationships

There was almost no light in the house except for in the kitchen. Her face seemed yellow too, and I could barely understand what she said. I remember that I asked my mother later whether my grandmother was from another country. Metal pans were arranged like a mosaic. There were brownies, oatmeal cookies, butter cookies, a cake with cherries and marzipan, and fudge, peanut butter and chocolate. She pushed the pans toward me, and I hesitated.

I knew the story of Hansel and Gretel. But I was afraid of her too. She asked him if he was taking care of himself. She brought him packages of summer sausage and a cheese log. Before we left, my grandmother stood and lifted a cardboard box from the top of the refrigerator. It was called Bitsy the Spider.

In the car on the way home, my mother asked me if I really wanted to keep that old torn-up book. She looked fierce, like she was going to tear up the road. She smiles at me. Earlier in the week I developed a rash on my stomach, and when I told her I was worried about it and wanted to see a doctor, she told me it was nothing and that it would go away.

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She said I was a hypochondriac — this from my mother, who is sick all the time. I went to the doctor on my own, and it turned out I had scarlet fever. Within a couple of days, the rash covered most of my legs and arms and chest. My rash was like a puddle of purple ink, spilled all over my body. I looked like a burn victim.

It was thirty degrees outside, but I walked around the house in shorts and a tank top, not just because I was burning up half the time, but because I wanted my mother to see my skin, to see what she had called hypochondria. No over-the-counter pain medication would do the job.

What she did was yesterday she brought home a bag full of soup packets. Inside the bag are two plain white boxes, and I lift the lids to find two wigs. This always makes her angry, but I hate to think of money wasted. My hair is already up in a bun, so I slip it over my head. My mother adjusts it for me. I look like a stranger.

mother and daughter relationship story

I imagine myself running through the aisle of a drug store, knocking bottles from shelves. My lipstick is smeared across my cheek, and I am singing at the top of my lungs. There is no other Sally. You could try the other one. My mother cannot answer me.

mother and daughter relationship story

I try to do something nice for you, and this is what I get. This girl fits my mood. It fits real well. I want you to put the other one on. I feel cruel somehow, my hands in her hair like this. Her hair is dry and brittle from years of coloring. The bobby pins give her the look of a woman who hangs out in laundromats, smoking cigarettes and coughing. My mother has never smoked a cigarette in her life, yet she has aged like a smoker.

Inspirational Story Mom and Daughter Relationships | klokkenluideronline.info

Stress has laid its hand on her. I set the blonde wig down upon her head. I pull and tug until it seems snug. The blonde is too blonde. She is running her fingers through the strands. It hurts me to see her do this. When I won a couple of awards at my junior high commencement, my mother told me she was proud of me.

Then she told me I was lucky that I had someone who was proud of me. She said she never had that. I never had anyone to compare us to. She said terrible, mean things to me.

You have a good mother who works hard for you, and who loves you. My mother almost never swears. Goodbye good job, goodbye respect, goodbye boyfriend or husband. And I thought, what about her brothers and sisters? There are six of them. As far as I understand, they are all still in contact, with each other and her mother.

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So, is she the only victim? Or the only survivor? After putting on the wigs, we get drunker than we ever have before. Usually, we have just one or two vodka tonics, just enough to make us warm and tipsy. And even that is rare, maybe once or twice a month. If I start to pour more than two drinks, she tells me that I better not become an alcoholic. But in these wigs, we are not ourselves; or maybe we are more ourselves than ever.