For 23 years, my single mother loved me, her only daughter, with a relentless, all-consuming vigour. Her devotion wrapped itself around me like one of the vintage Hermès scarves she used to drape herself with: beautiful, yes, but sometimes knotted a little too tight. She was always exquisitely put together – hair coiffed, nails done – an appearance that belied the reality of our living situation.
At home, in our tiny New York apartment, designer clothes were draped everywhere, piles of magazines blocking any sunlight from coming in through the windows. Our house told a story of mounting debt, compulsive spending and a burgeoning mental health crisis to which I would ultimately lose my mum. Next year will mark 20 years since my mother’s death, an impossibly long period without her by my side, and, in many ways, at 42, my sense of grief has only grown more acute.
Still, my late 30s and early 40s have been a period of transformation. I’ve started exercising regularly; given up alcohol; practised contradicting the negative voices in my mind. I’ve been as reflective and meditative as possible while still being a good partner, a mother to four children, and a writer.
Except, even as my mind has become clearer, my house has remained, well, chaos – thanks, in no small part, to my mum’s possessions. After I lost my mother to suicide, I transferred her endless belongings to a storage unit in the Bronx – shipping them over to London when I moved here in the late Aughts.