The reason is Tory, who is technically Elyse’s daughter, but, just as Mark predicted we would, through the years we’ve shared her. And in my role of honorary aunt, I suppose that I’ve been overly indulgent—the giver of extravagant gifts, the planner of trips to Disney World, Broadway, Paris, and Cancún. This wasn’t really a problem when she was little and Elyse welcomed the break, but after her divorce . . .No. No, not really. That’s too easy an explanation for what went wrong between Tory and Elyse. All girls come to resent their mothers as they approach puberty, not just those who have been forced to sleep on air mattresses in a series of apartments in which their mothers throw pots and hold soirees and summon tribal spirits, and slip farther and farther from the epicenter of respectable suburban life. If I stepped in at a few key times—if I was the one who bought Tory her first bra, who took her to get her hair styled for the prom—it was only because we both knew how much Tory craved normalcy and how ill-equipped Elyse was to provide it.“You’re the un-mother,”
