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The Album of a Prostitute Mother
- Lady Ronit
- Sep 11, 2024
- 7 min read
Updated: Oct 18, 2024
The judging eyes of our children and that disapproving mist in their eyes are perhaps what we all fear the most. That one day, inevitably, the day will come when our own children will show us disapproval. When, even if such words are not spoken, their eyes will make us understand that we have failed. That we did not live up to the challenge we took upon ourselves in parenthood, and we will realize that they will be ashamed of us.
Once, in one of the colourful houses on Nothing Hills, in this fairy-tale, truly surreal district of London, seemingly so beautiful and carefree, so naively, sweetly strange. In one of those houses lived a Boy. His name was Gideon Michaëlle. Or some other beautiful name, like Möise, or maybe another, perhaps Maurice or Moris? Or maybe Gabriel or Raphael, or Titus? Whatever it may be, let’s say his name was Gideon Michael, and let’s call the Mother who gave him such a lovely name Sybil, to express her cursed fate.
An unexpected day dawned, the same as any other. The boy was eight years old at that time, though I’m still not sure what his name was. Maybe it was Noah, maybe John, maybe Christopher? It certainly wasn’t Hassan or Khalid, unless it was otherwise. Never mind, I don’t know anymore.
The boy got his hands on, for the first time in his life consciously, although he had done it less carefully many times before, the Mother’s album. That album in a leather cover in the colour of red, crocodile skin, though in fact, it was a hideous imitation. An album from the Mother’s infamous youth, and he began to ask her for an explanation.
Mommy, Mommy Sybil, tell me where you know these gentlemen from?
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