There Was a Little Girl: The Real Story of My Mother and Me by Brooke Shields Read Free Book Online Page A

known my parents as a couple, I had no feeling of loss or guilt surrounding their divorce. I would grow up knowing, or at least trying to know, them each independently. From the day I was born, whether they were a couple or not, my mom always made sure that my dad saw me frequently.
    It was clear that my mother wanted my father to have a relationship with me. Even if she herself could not be with him, she wanted me in his life. She would invent ways for him to be forced to see me. Sometimes, if Dad hadn’t seen me in a while, Mom would dress me up in a fancy dress or romper, complete with bonnet or bow and Mary Janes, and take me to the building in which my father worked. She’d do this at the end of his workday. Mom would wait with me just around the corner but with a good view of the building’s entrance. She would watch for my dad to leave, and as he came out of the building, she’d push me out alone and say, “Go, go see Daddy!” She told me she’d duck out of sight and I’d toddle over to him. Slightly surprised and a bit nervous for my safety, he’d scoop me up in his arms and search for my mom. When she popped out into view, he’d use hisnaturally booming voice and exclaim, “Jesus Christ, Teri, what the hell are you doing?”
    After the ambush, I’m not sure if we all spent some time together or they just chatted on the street for a bit. I’m sure my dad usually had some place to go, but Mom was satisfied just knowing she made him see his baby girl. There was never a doubt in my mind that he was my dad.
    I even have pictures of both Mom and Dad strolling me down Fifth Avenue during the Easter parade. In the photos I’m about two or three, and we look like a perfectly intact, happy family. Mom is chic in her black-and-white plaid skirt and cropped jacket with a white pillbox hat. Dad looks dapper as always, in a suit and tie. I am in a navy wool double-breasted coat and a white hat. My white tights were a bit twisted or saggy and dirty at the knees, but my black patent-leather Mary Janes are shiny. Together, they were a stunning couple and always turned people’s heads. They didn’t look divorced.

    But even though the photos make us look as if we were just like any other family, the truth was very different. From the time my parents divorced, my life with my mother was very unique. Surprisingly, being a single mom in New York City proved to be more convenient for Mom than one would think. I did have occasional sitters, and my godmother often watched me, but for the most part, I was portable and a welcomed accessory to any of my mother’s fashion-forward outfits. Sporadically, she brought me by bus out to visit her mom and siblings in Paterson and Newark but, for the most part, we remained in good old Manhattan. Mom took me to parties with her various fashion-industry friends. We went to dinner clubs and movies and even the theatre, and I would either play or sleep and was obviously happier being with her than with a sitter. I was simply most comfortable being physically around my mother.
    Although my mother managed to stay in contact with many of the friends she made while with my father, she also maintained the friendships she had cultivated outside his Waspy circles. She made new friends as well, many who were in the fashion industry or entertainment of some kind. She befriended photographers and stylists, designers and artists. She was developing a very colorful group of talented people from diverse walks of life. In any given week we would be visiting a huge mansion out in the Hamptons as well as going to a downtown evening in a jazz club or performance-art space or photo exhibit. She frequented all walks of life, with me in her arms and then on her hip. It appeared Mom began forging her own path.
    I was one of those babies you see out late at night in restaurants and being passed around the table to be cooed at or brought into the bathroom to be changed on the sink. I slept soundly, lulled by the