This is a story about a mother who loves her daughter. Imperfectly. Because we all love imperfectly. Unintentionally, I have read two novels in a row that have to do with imperfect mothering told from the perspectives of women who have been imperfectly parented and who in turn recognize their own shortcomings. In The Language of Flowers the narrator was quite young, an orphan, and dealing in real time with the daily ramifications of imperfect parenting. In My Name is Lucy Barton, the narrator is older, […]