My mother was gorgeous. As I introduced her, people invariably remarked, “Wow! She is stunning.” She came of age when a woman’s beauty was one of the sole things she could parlay into worth. And she did. Marrying my Dad (also quite handsome) at 18 and taking a single college class—Home Economics—Mom dropped out to deliver my oldest brother. She was a classic beauty and emphasized it exquisitely with clothes and makeup. She strove to always “look like she walked out of Vogue magazine.” And she did. This wasn’t vanity. It was power.

My oldest brother, in preschool, looked up at Mom when she tucked him in at night and thought, “My mom is prettier than all the other moms.”

I was her one daughter, and my mother worried I didn’t “take care of my appearance” the way she thought essential. It was the late ‘60s and ‘70s when I breached adolescence, and “peasant skirts,” flowing garments, and tie-dye were all the rage. The scrubbier the better.

Though I knew Mom was stunning, I didn’t notice until my teens that no one seemed to mention my beauty. I’m not unattractive; I was and am petite and have been called “cute” so often I sometimes think I’m “terminally cute.” But my three older........

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