Who we were as women couldn’t be more different and, sadly, that was something I’d come to take pride in. In the end, I had matured into her spitting image aside from the style of our hair and the color of my eyes. And her way with men, how they looked at her and catered to her … well, I’d wanted that magic touch of hers, too. I tried to emulate her breathy voice and sensual mannerisms, certain my mother was the most gorgeous and perfect woman in the world. I spent hours dressing up in her clothes, stumbling around in her heels, smearing my face with her expensive creams and cosmetics. Once, I had wanted to grow up to be just like my mother. “A bump that had you avoiding him for days? That’s not the way to deal with your problems, Eva.”
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