For ten years I had been taught that a good mother subtracts herself — that every ambition I had was a small theft from my child, that wanting a career of my own was a kind of selfishness I ought to feel bad about.

And when I stepped back into the working world I felt the old accusation rise up, sharp as ever: you should be home, what kind of mother chooses a boardroom over her daughter. It took me a long time, and some help, to see that accusation for the inherited lie it was.

Because I watched what actually happened to Mia as her mother came back to life.

She did not wilt.