In the 1960s, when the author moved to Israel with her Jewish partner, little did she know her mother’s disapproval would last for decades
When, in 1982, ill health and unhappiness led my mother to kill herself, she wrote this to me: “I love you so much that now I am weakening I’m going to beg you to try to forgive me. No words of mine can thank you enough for the love you have given me … the kindness, the sharing, the laughter and the many happinesses. It’s because I want those to be the things you will remember that I am going.”
I absolutely adored her, and I know she loved me. But there were times when the life choices I made in around 1960 severely tested our relationship.
I had to hand the baby over to begin his ‘communal rearing’. That was too much for her
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