Liz Scheier's darkly funny and touching memoir - with shades of Jeannette Walls's The Glass Castle and Mira Bartok's The Memory Palace - of growing up in 90s Manhattan with a brilliant, mendacious single mother Scheier's mother Judith was a news junkie, a hilarious storyteller, a fast-talking charmer you couldn't look away from, a single mother whose devotion crossed the line into obsession, and - when in the grips of the mental illness that plagued every day of her life - a violent and abusive liar whose hold on reality was shaky at best. On an uneventful afternoon when Scheier was eighteen, her mother sauntered into the room to tell her two important things - one, she had been married for most of Scheier's life to a man she'd never heard of, and two, the man she'd told Scheier was her father was entirely fictional. She'd made him up. Those two big lies were the start, but not the end, it took dozens of smaller lies to support them, and by the time she was done she had built a farcical, half-true life for the two of them, from fake social security number to fabricated husband. One hot July day twenty years later, Scheier receives a voicemail from Adult Protective Services, reporting that Judith has stopped paying rent and is refusing all offers of assistance.
