Many years ago, as I sat with my mother-in-law going over plans for her blow-out 60th birthday party, I noticed there was something slightly different about the way she looked. Dorothy was as glam as a starlet, like a willowy version of Faye Dunaway, with the lustrous skin, stemmy legs, and dramatic personality to match. But that day she looked even more stunning than usual. More rested. Vibrant. Younger. I was tempted to chalk it up to pre-party excitement, but the change seemed physical. It was subtle, but undeniable.
I had married Dorothy’s handsome son, Gordon, just the year before. He was her everything; for our wedding, she bought matching luggage—for him and herself. So it came as a delightful surprise when she embraced me wholeheartedly. But I still felt like a curiosity, the pretty-but-not-beautiful nature girl who loved hiking and camping. (“Camping? In a tent?” Dorothy would ask incredulously when I’d drag her son off on wilderness excursions.) I loved my new mother-in-law, but I didn’t yet relate to her. She and I had little in common, I told myself, save for our mutual adoration of her son.
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