Ali MacGraw became a Hollywood superstar overnight. But just as quickly as she rose to fame, she disappeared from show business altogether.
Today, the 84-year-old actress has settled down in a remote and tiny town, and she’s aging gracefully with her grey hair.
Ali MacGraw
Ali MacGraw – born Elizabeth Alice MacGraw – was born on April 1, 1939, in Pound Ridge, New York, USA. Her mother, Frances, was an artist and worked at a school in Paris, later settling in Greenwich Village. She married Richard MacGraw, who was also an artist. In 1939, Ali was born.
Ali’s father Richard supposedly had issues from his own childhood which made him a little bit different from others.
He had survived a terrible childhood in an orphanage, running away at the age of 16 to go to sea. He would later study at an art school in Munich, Germany.
“Daddy was frightened and really, really angry. He never forgave his real parents for giving him up,” Ali explained, saying said her father’s adult life was spent “suppressing the rage that covered all his hurt.”
Ali MacGraw – childhood
Money was short for their family, too. Frances and Richard, together with Ali and her brother, Richard Jr, had to move into a house on a Pound Ridge wilderness preserve which they shared with an elderly couple.
“There were no doors; we shared the kitchen and bathroom with them,” Ali said. “It was utter lack of privacy. It was horrible.”
Mom Francis worked with several commercial-art assignments and supported the family. At the same time, Richard had a hard time selling his paintings, and as a result became very frustrated. Ali’s brother Richard became a victim for his anger at home.
“On good days he was great, but on bad days he was horrendous,” she recalled. “Daddy would beat my brother up, badly. I was witness to it, and it was terrible.”
Ali was the daughter of artists, and she knew that she, too, wanted to go into a creative line of work as she got older. She earned a scholarship at the prep school Rosemary Hall, and in 1956, she moved to study at Wellesley College in Massachusetts.
By the age of 22, Ali MacGraw moved to New York and got her first job as an assistant editor at Harper’s Bazaar, working with photographers as an assistant.
Fashion work in New York
Fashion editor Diana Vreeland hired Ali as, what she recalls as, a “flunkie”. Ever seen the film The Devil Wears Prada? Well, it was pretty much that.
“It was ‘Girl! Get me a pencil!’,” MacGraw recalled.
The future Hollywood celebrity worked her job as an assistant for several months. Then, about six months in, fashion photographer Melvin Sokolsky noticed her beautiful looks, and Ali MacGraw was hired as a stylist,and given a better salary. She’d end up staying in that position for six years.
“I don’t know where she got this work ethic, but Ali would come in at eight a.m., and many times I’d come back at one in the morning and she would still be doing things for the next day,” Ruth Ansel, a former art director of Vanity Fair and Harper’s Bazaar recalls.
Ali was great as a stylist. But soon, she was asked to work in front of the cameras as a model. It didn’t take long before she was on magazine covers all over the world, even appearing in television commercials. For thing led to another, and Ali tumbled headfirst into the profession of acting.
She had been sketched nude by Salvador Dali a couple of years earlier. But when the surrealist artist started sucking her toes, MacGraw decided that she’d rather be an actress than a model.
Ali MacGraw – films
Ali went straight from an unknown stylist and into the world of cinema, and boy, did she do it with a bang.
She was untutored in the art of film, which gave her acting another dimension. Her natural beauty was stunning, and the audience loved her.
Following a small role in A Lovely Way to Die (1968), she was asked to star in the 1969 film Goodbye, Columbus. It turned out to be a great call, with MacGraw receiving a Golden Globe for Most Promising Newcomer – Female. The following year, she got her big international breakthrough with a role that would pretty much sum up her career.
Ali MacGraw had received a script from her agent. She’d read it and wept twice because of how much she loved it. She decided she really wanted a part in it, and got herself a meeting with the film’s producer Robert Evans – who at the time was Paramount Picture’s head of production – at the Beverly Hills Hotel’s Polo Lounge. Not only did Evans think she was perfect for the part in the movie Love Story, he absolutely fell in love with her.
MacGraw – playing the role of Jenny – acted alongside Ryan O’Neal in the movie Love Story. The American romantic drama film, in which Ali played a working-class college student, became a smash hit.
Love Story hit the cinemas in 1970, and wow did the audience cherish it. It became the No. 1 film in the United States, and at the time, it was the sixth highest grossing movie in history in the US and Canada.
Award-winning actress
MacGraw earned an Academy Award nomination for her role, and the film itself earned her another win and five Academy Award Nominations. She also won herself a second Golden Globe as Best Actress in a Motion Picture – Drama.
Film producer Robert Evans not only loved her on screen, he had fallen in love with her in real life, and that love was reciprocated. In 1969, the couple tied the knot, and two years later, they welcomed their son, Josh Evans.
Ali MacGraw was the hot new star of the 1970s, but her private life and marriage with Evans would soon come to an end. Steve McQueen had visited their home to ask her to star alongside him in The Getaway, and the two Hollywood stars clicked right away.
“I looked in those blue eyes, and my knees started knocking,” MacGraw recalled. “I became obsessed.”
MacGraw and McQueen had an affair, and she soon left Evans to live with the actor in Malibu, along with her son Josh.
“Steve was this very original, principled guy who didn’t seem to be part of the system, and I loved that,” she said.
Ali MacGraw – Steve McQueen
But after a while, Ali realized that Steve McQueen had his own problems. Following his father abandoning his mother, a then-14-year-old Steve was sent to a school for delinquent children. MacGraw said he never trusted women after that.
(Photo by Silver Screen Collection/Getty Images)
He didn’t like that she worked and had her own career. For a while, Ali stayed home to raise their sons. But her husband’s demands were something Ali simply couldn’t accept in the long run.
Not only that, but he’d explode if she even looked at another man. He also wanted her to sign a prenuptial agreement, promising not to ask for anything if they’d divorce. She abided by the agreement when they did divorce in 1978.
“I couldn’t even go to art class because Steve expected his ‘old lady’ to be there every night with dinner on the table,” she recalled.
“Steve’s idea of hot was not me. He liked blond bimbos, and they were always around.”
This was the start of a pretty dark time in MacGraw’s life. She arrived on set to shoot the 1978 film Convoy both drunk and high, which prompted her to quit drugs.
I Thought I Knew My Mother Until a Hidden Birth Bracelet Revealed a Different Story – Story of the Day
I thought I knew everything about my mother until I found a birth bracelet in the attic. Not mine. The name on it revealed a secret that shattered my reality and sent me searching for the truth.
After my father’s death, the bond between my mother and me had frayed. With her Alzheimer’s erasing pieces of her every day, it felt as if I were navigating a maze of memories that weren’t entirely mine. The decision to place her in a care facility weighed on me like a lead blanket.
“It’s what’s best,” I whispered to myself, though the words felt hollow.
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I wasn’t equipped to give her the care she needed, but the guilt gnawed at me all the same.
Packing up her belongings was part of the process, though it felt more like dismantling her life piece by piece. I climbed the narrow steps to the attic and knelt by the nearest box, brushing away cobwebs before opening.
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I expected the usual: old photo albums or yellowed papers she hadn’t used in years. Instead, my hand froze as I pulled out a small, yellowed hospital bracelet.
The text on it blurred as I reread the name over and over:
“Baby Boy Williams, 12-15-83, Claire W.”
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My fingers trembled as I reached back into the box. There was a delicate baby blanket with the initials “C.W.” stitched into one corner. Beneath it was a black-and-white photo of my mother holding a baby. She looked impossibly young, her face glowing with love.
The back read: “My Collin, Winter 1983.”
I stared at the photo.
Collin? Who are you? My brother? And where are you now?
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***
I brought the bracelet and photo downstairs, holding them so tightly my knuckles turned white. My mother was in her favorite armchair, her frail frame almost swallowed by the oversized cushions. She stared out the window, her expression serene. To anyone else, she might have looked calm, at peace even. But I knew better. That stillness masked the fog of Alzheimer’s, the disease that had stolen so much of her mind.
“Mom,” I said softly, walking over and kneeling beside her. “I need to ask you something.” I placed the bracelet and photo on her lap, watching her eyes flicker toward them. For a brief moment, I thought I saw recognition in her gaze, but it passed as quickly as it came.
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Her fingers brushed over the photo, and she muttered something under her breath. “Sunlight… warm… chocolate cake,” she said, her words drifting into nonsense. “The flowers were so pretty that day.”
I felt my chest tighten. “Mom, please,” I urged, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice. “Who is Collin? Why didn’t you ever tell me about him?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she rambled about a cat we never owned and a picnic that may or may not have happened. My hope started to crumble.
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I sank onto the floor beside her, exhausted. The bracelet and photo were still on her lap, untouched. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to steady myself. Then, she spoke again, her voice clear and soft, like a distant echo of the mother I used to know.
“It was a winter morning,” she began, her gaze fixed on something I couldn’t see. “The sun was shining through the window. I named him Collin.”
My breath caught. I stayed silent, afraid to break whatever fragile thread had surfaced in her memory.
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“He was beautiful,” she whispered. “But his father took him away. Said it was for the best.”
Her words hit me like a wave. “His father?” I whispered. “Who is he? Why did he take Collin?”
Before I could ask more, her clarity slipped away. Her eyes clouded, and she began repeating, “The Bread Basket… The Bread Basket…”
“What does that mean, Mom?” I pressed gently, but she only repeated it like a mantra.
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***
I couldn’t stop thinking about Collin. I decided to go to the hospital where I was born, the only one in the city. My mother’s memory was unreliable, but being in a familiar place could trigger something.
“We’re going to the hospital where Collin was born,” I told her as I helped her into the car.
She looked at me, her expression distant. “Hospital? Why?”
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“You mentioned Collin before, remember? I need to know more about him.”
Her hands fidgeted in her lap. “Collin… I don’t know if I remember.”
“It’s okay,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “Maybe being there will help.”
The drive was quiet, apart from her occasional murmurs.
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“Sunlight… winter mornings,” she whispered, staring out the window. “He had the softest blanket…”
When we arrived, the hospital looked just as I remembered it from my childhood—small, with its faded brick exterior and slightly overgrown bushes by the entrance. I helped Mom out of the car, and her eyes scanned the building as though trying to place it.
Inside, I explained our visit to the receptionist, who directed us to Dr. Miller, the head doctor.
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“Dr. Miller,” I began, once we were seated in her office, “I found this bracelet and photo. My mother… She had a son, Collin, two years before me. I need to know what happened.”
Dr. Miller examined the bracelet and photo, her expression softening.
“I remember Claire,” she said, looking at my mother. “She was so young when she had Collin.”
My mother shifted uncomfortably in her chair but said nothing.
“What happened to him?” I asked, leaning forward.
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Dr. Miller sighed. “Collin’s father came back into the picture after he was born, much older than Clarie. He wasn’t her boyfriend at the time, but someone from her past. He wanted to raise the baby himself.”
My mother’s head turned slightly, her eyes narrowing as if trying to follow the conversation.
“Claire was devastated,” Dr. Miller continued. “She loved Collin, but the boy’s father took Collin when he was just a few months old. He wrote to me for a while, asking for advice on caring for Collin. Then the letters stopped. But I do remember him mentioning he planned to move to another town.”
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“What town?” I asked quickly.
Dr. Miller jotted it down on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “Here. It’s about five hours from here.”
“Thank you,” I said, standing up. “This means so much to me.”
As we left, I couldn’t stop thinking about driving to that town. My brother Collin existed and I was determined to find him.
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***
The journey felt like an eternity, not just because of the five-hour drive but because every minute required my full attention. My Mom lost in her fragmented world, needed constant reminders and gentle guidance.
“Is it time to eat?” she asked, even after finishing a sandwich minutes earlier.
I patiently offered her small snacks, unwrapping them as though presenting a gift.
At one point, she handed me a yogurt with a puzzled expression. “How do you open this?”
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I smiled, peeling back the foil lid. “Like this, Mom. Just like you showed me when I was little.”
As I handed it back, a wave of emotion hit me. I remembered her delicate hands guiding mine as a child, showing me how to hold a spoon, tie my shoes, and even fold paper into makeshift airplanes. Back then, her patience seemed infinite.
Somewhere along the way, that connection had slipped away. But at that moment, it was as though the roles were reversed.
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We finally arrived in the quiet, sleepy town. It was like stepping into a picture from decades ago—small storefronts, weathered buildings, and not a soul on the streets.
I stepped out and stretched, glancing around with uncertainty.
“Where is everyone?” I muttered, more to myself than to my mother.
A passing man overheard and pointed down the road. “Town fair. Everyone’s there. You should check it out.”
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The fair seemed like the best place to start. If Collin lived in that town, he might be among the crowds. I helped my mother out of the car, her grip firm on my arm as we walked toward the colorful booths.
The scent of caramelized sugar and fried food filled the air, blending with the lively hum of laughter.
But as we moved deeper into the fairgrounds, my mother began to grow restless. Her voice, usually so soft, rose with urgency.
“The Bread Basket… The Bread Basket…” she repeated almost pleading.
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I stopped, kneeling slightly to face her. “What is it, Mom?”
Before she could answer, a vendor overheard and chimed in with a smile.
“Oh, The Bread Basket? That’s the bakery just down the street. Great choice!”
My heart skipped. That was it. With renewed energy, I guided my mother down the street to a quaint shop with a hand-painted sign that read “The Bread Basket.” The scent of freshly baked bread, cinnamon, and butter wrapped around us as we entered.
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At the counter, I asked cautiously, “Do you know anyone named Collin?”
The worker smiled knowingly. “Collin? He’s the owner. Let me get him for you.”
A moment later, a man emerged, wiping his hands on an apron. He was taller than I’d imagined, with a sturdy build and quiet confidence. But it was his eyes. Deep and familiar—they were my mother’s eyes.
For a moment, none of us spoke. Collin studied me with curiosity, and I felt the weight of the years and secrets between us.
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“My name is Mia, and this is my mother, Claire. I found a birth bracelet with your name on it among her things.”
Collin stared at me, his brow furrowing. “My name? From her?”
I nodded, feeling his confusion. My mother stirred beside me.
“David… The Bread Basket… He always said there’s nothing better than a basket of bread,” she murmured. “He promised me he’d name his bakery that one day.”
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Collin froze. “My God. David is my father.”
We moved to a small corner table, where I explained everything—the birth bracelet, the fragments of the story my mother had shared, and the path that had led me here.
Collin listened intently, his gaze flickering between me and our mother.
“It was his dream,” Collin finally said. “The Bread Basket… it was everything to him. And now, it’s mine too.”
The pieces began to align in my mind. The bakery was a connection that had survived decades of silence.
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We visited David the next day. Though frail, his eyes lit up the moment he saw my mother, a glow of warmth and shared memories filling the room. He took her hand gently, their bond needing no words.
“I thought it was best for everyone,” he said softly, his voice heavy with regret.
As the days passed, I watched them reconnect. I decided to stay, moving close to Collin’s bakery to help him and care for my mother.
For the first time, our family felt whole. Love had found its way back, stronger than ever.
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