To Her, with LOVE

What makes the relationship between mother and daughter so fraught, so ferociously loving, so freighted with meaning whether you speak daily or she's been dead 20 years? Four women weigh in on the wonders of this singular bond.

THE DOUBLE-EDGED MOTHER

She could be cruel and thoughtless. Or magnetic and loving. Now that her mom is gone, Amanda Avutu chooses which version to remember.

IF I EVER WONDERED what my mom wanted for Mother's Day, all I had to do was visit the fridge and look at the list, written in her exquisite cursive, she'd made for us kids. The first item: L'Air du Temps-or, for those of us who couldn't yet read, a glossy photo of the perfume cut from a magazine. She was all want, my mother. Particularly when it came to attention. For that, her hunger was insatiable.

There were four of us kids, plus my dad. If one didn't give her what she desired, she'd move on to the next. If it was your turn, she'd whisper in your ear while everyone was sleeping, "C'mon, let's go get some coffee!" and you'd know she meant eggs and Taylor ham at the diner, and that there you'd hear some small, revelatory detail about her life that she'd entrust to you and only you. In that moment, nothing else existed.

Not the time she slammed you into the wall for eating leftover Chinese food in their air-conditioned bedroom (the house's only air-conditioned room) because you knew she was on a diet and the smell made her hungry. Not the time she forgot about pickup and left you at school for hours. Not the time she swore you weren't invited to that birthday party because, you now suspect, she just didn't feel like taking you. None of it mattered. She had chosen you, and you were magnificent.