I’m sitting in my great-aunt’s retirement home on the outskirts of Detroit, Michigan. It’s not yet October, but for reasons I don’t quite understand the home is throwing a Thanksgiving dinner for residents and guests. I join my great-aunt June and the other octogenarians piling up their paper plates at the buffet. Then we sit at trestle tables lined with tiny pumpkins, while framed photos of the recently deceased sit on top of the grand piano, seemingly looking our way.
The early holiday celebrations weren’t the only surprise when I arrived in Michigan. I was there to research a book I was writing about the history of the women’s movement, but also about my mother, whose life story echoes the rise and fall of second-wave feminism. In 1974, a year after Roe v Wade passed, my 22-year-old mother travelled from Essex, England to New York City and took a Greyhound bus across the country to visit June, who was then living in Omaha, Nebraska. At that time, my mum’s life, as it was for so many women of the era, was full of promise. She was the first in the family to go to university, coming of age alongside the revolutionary ideas of the 1960s. I wanted to learn from June who my mum was when everything still seemed possible. I was on this journey as a journalist and as a daughter; in each of these roles, I wanted to know everything.
