My mother did not simply lie to me about Maya, or lie to Maya about me.

She did something more sophisticated and more devastating: she constructed, for each of us, a false version of the other, and then she stood between us, feeding each false version to the person who loved the real one.

To me, she painted a Maya who was spoiled, and wasteful, and ungrateful, running wild with money she squandered; and I, who could not see my real daughter, slowly came to resent this fictional one.

To Maya, she painted a Jason who was cold, and resentful, and ashamed of his child, tired of the burden of her; and Maya, who could not reach her real father, slowly came to grieve this fictional one.