A door to a small balcony going off our house catches my eye. I scramble to it and launch myself out of the door, praying my father doesn’t follow. I look around, bewildered; I don’t remember this part of the apartment before. But it’s here, and on it is a woman. She is my mother. Some might say it is hard to tell, but I can feel the connection surging between us. I know her, as I would know her anywhere.

She’s beautiful. Her long, skinny legs flow elegantly down the reclined sun chair. Her long dark blond hair is perfectly aligned, not a hair out of place. Her large, designer-brand sunglasses rest delicately above perfectly sculpted lips. She’s reading a magazine; which one, I’m not sure. I glance back to the door, but he hasn’t charged through yet. I practically throw myself down beside her, on my knees. She doesn’t look up from her reading, as I would have thought.