Mother

Female | 50s | 3 to 5 minutes
Starts on page 1

EXTRACT: The thought of reaching the end of my life and looking back to see that I had not lived it well, terrifies me. To live life well. No easy task. To live it fully, to live it vibrantly, to live it decently, that’s all I ask. The decent bit, of course, is the hardest part. I am wealthy. I’ve not wanted for anything. I’ve never been poor, never been hungry, never been afraid. I have, on occasion, been sad. An indulged only child, I loved school, enjoyed the antics of friends and the excitement of new ideas and the audacity of rebellion. I travelled. I did my degree at university. I married. I divorced. I married. I divorced again. I was trained by my father to take over the business. I sit on boards, manage important deals, have huge responsibilities, to employees, to trustees, to greedy members of the extended family. Since his death I have full power over the estate. Despite a life full of beautiful things, visits to extraordinary places, dinner parties with erudite and distinguished guests, and every conceivable comfort at my behest, should I glimpse my reflection in a mirror, I see a woman who has a look about her that is disconcerting. It’s as if she’s about to have the rug pulled from under her. I am childless. By choice. I’ve no interest in bearing a child, nor a sense of not achieving something fundamental if I do not. I feel no less a woman.