In Her Image

After decades of conforming to her mother’s expectations, Elissa Altman decided honesty was the best policy.

My mother arrived in my office lobby unannounced, on a mission. Her black woven Bottega Veneta tote sat next to her on the kilim couch; her blonde Sassoon bob was expertly trimmed. These being the days before cell phones, she no doubt passed the time obsessively reapplying her Clinique Red Red Red lipstick, a self-soothing tic, as my colleagues filed out of the building to grab a sandwich. I guess she assumed I’d have to come down eventually.

“Your mother’s in the lobby again,” my boss said, hovering over my cubicle. “I asked if she wanted to come up, but she said she didn’t want to invade your privacy.”

When I finally appeared, she stood up, glowered at my outfit, and made a familiar pronouncement: I don’t like how you look. Then we linked arms and stepped out onto Fifth Avenue.