My Mom used to read to me The Canterville Ghost and other Oscar Wilde's short stories every night before going to bed. She is not an avid reader, but she loved to read Wilde over and over again. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment on the third floor of a red brick building, just the two of us. As an only child I grew up experimenting with insects, writing stories and drawing. I spent all afternoons doing homework and reading while my Mother cooked and kept our apartment tidy. She always tried to make me feel we were a bigger family, trying to make up for the void left after my father's death. Now we live hundreds of miles apart, but I guess we are as close as we used to be.
Pepa's mother died today. She lost the battle to cancer.