June came to meet me at the behest of her son who never mentioned I'd have two psychotherapists in the audience for my public discussion of my dysfunctional family memoir. She was both warm and hilarious. Somehow, I never minded that she likely thought I had too many issues to count. While I only met her once, she penned several letters I treasure, always claiming we needed to get together again to argue more about my dysfunction. 

Perhaps she saw herself in me.

The last time we corresponded, she assured me she was fine when she knew she wasn't. Vulernability is the bane of strong women. I read the truth between the inky lines of her response. We tell ourselves these stories, these shades of truth or outright lies, to keep going. I never argued with her version of reality, which was as she wanted. But I'll miss those tales just the same.