Aunty Love Quotes

Both the five-year-olds looked at me with bewilderment and a bit of fearful uncertainty. I had a sudden horrifying image of the woman I might become if I'm not careful: Crazy Aunt Liz. The divorcee in the muumuu with the dyed orange hair who doesn't eat dairy but smokes menthols, who's always just coming back from her astrology cruise or breaking up with her aroma-therapist boyfriend, who reads the Tarot cards of kindergarteners and says things like, "Bring Aunty Liz another wine cooler, baby, and I'll let you wear my mood ring...

I was alone. I had no one. No mother, no father, no brothers, no sisters, no grandmas, no grandpas, no uncles, no aunties, no cousins, and no tribe. I’d seen the children at the orphanage laugh or cry when they received news about a family member. I would never receive such news and no family would laugh or cry for me. That day I understood with sharp clarity that I didn’t have a mother who wanted me.

You were loved because God loves, period. God loved you, and everyone, not because you believed in certain things, but because you were a mess, and lonely, and His or Her child. God loved you no matter how crazy you felt on the inside, no matter what a fake you were; always, even in your current condition, even before coffee. God loves you crazily, like I love you...like a slightly overweight auntie, who sees only your marvelousness and need.

Don't forget you are with him for sex only. Remove the cobwebs as Sarah suggested. Have fun like auntie said. You don't have to get to know him.

The biggest mistake you can make is trying to interpret someone's actions in a way that fits your definition for love.

And I knew Nick’s love for Auntie Reba. He loved her in a way that was indescribable. It wasn’t like she walked on water or was the earth and moon and stars. It was different. It was breath. It was necessity.

Not all gays respond to the same stuff. Would Alexander the Great have loved Auntie Mame?

I love you because you’re funny and snarky, sarcastic as all hell, and the night we met, you told me to go fuck myself.” He ignores the way Cara shrieks his name. “You’re also kind and soft, sensitive and sweet, the best auntie, and a teacher I would’ve died to have in high school. You’re not just my girlfriend; you’re my biggest cheerleader and my best friend.

My eyes fill with tears. All these years, I have never seen it that way, but Ma’s right. I did grow up with four mothers, and it really has been amazing. There’s been so much love in my life that I took for granted.

If love existed, this woman would have his heart, and he'd willingly take his scalpel to carve it out and give it to her.

He was so worthy of being loved; I didn’t want him to be alone. Something in my expression must have revealed what was on my mind. “No pity, Auntie. The winds do not always blow as the ship desires,” he murmured, tucking me into my chair. “The winds do what I tell them to do.” “And I plot my own course.

You're home. See, Auntie Reba said home isn't a place, home is anywhere just as long as the people you love are there.

At least with my father, the danger was out in the open. I knew what to expect. But Auntie Cath is a different kind of dark altogether. The worst kind. The kind made from love.

Romance novels sell an idealized fantasy that we all want to experience. They may be fiction, but there is a reason why so many people connect to love stories. Because that’s the type of feeling we want to give, and want to receive.

Chinese family meals aren’t complete without everyone serving food to everyone else, because doing so shows love and respect, which means we all need to do it in the most attention-seeking way possible.

She used to call me on the phone and scream, “I LOVE YOU SO MUCH, I AM GOING TO CHOP YOU INTO PIECES SO SMALL, YOU WILL BE A POWDER AND NO ONE WILL FIND YOU.

She a nice lady ol auntie … but ol moms was somethin else, she really somethin else. Harrys eyes were closed and he was leanin back remembering how his mother always protected him from the cold wind in the winter when he was a kid, and how warm she felt when he got in the house and she hugged the cold out of his ears and cheeks and always had a bowl of hot soup waiting. … Yeah, I guess the old lady was pretty groovy too. I guess its a bitch being alone like that. Harry Goldfarb and Tyrone C. Love sat loosely in their chairs, their eyes half closed, feeling the warmth of fond memories and heroin flowing through them as they got ready for another nights work.

The women in my family are medicine. They are backbones and ribcages and hearts. They are whispers in men's ears. They are the guardians that kept us whole.

That’s what the South was like for me. Sweet on the first taste, but something gone sour underneath. It’ll try to trick you, now—the sugarberries and the quiet and those lovely spread-out houses. But after that day with Auntie Rose, I could smell the rotten too.

I think I’m getting a notion of how to do this. O.K., a carnival works because people pay to feel amazed and scared. They can nibble around a midway getting amazed here and scared there, or both. And do you know what else? Hope. Hope they’ll win a prize, break the jackpot, meet a girl, hit a bull’s-eye in front of their buddies. In a carnival you call it luck or chance, but it’s the same as hope. Now hope is a good feeling that needs risk to work. How good it is depends on how big the risk is if what you hope doesn’t happen. You hope your old auntie croaks and leaves you a carload of shekels, but she might leave them to her cat. You might not hit the target or win the stuffed dog, you might lose your money and look like a fool. You don’t get the surge without the risk. Well. Religion works the same way. The only difference is that it’s more amazing than even Chick or the twins. And it’s a whole lot scarier than the Roll-a-plane or the Screamer, or any simp twister. This scare stuff laps over into the hope department too. The hope you get from religion is a three-ring, all-star hope because the risk is outrageous. Bad! Well, I’m working on it. I’ve got the amazing part down. And the scary bits are a snap. But I’ve got to come up with a hope.

But aunties are equivocal figures of affection, wicked and unreliable, pretending love only so long as they are short of love themselves, and then off.

matter of time before you marry, so do it.” Grace screamed with delight and jumped off Alexandra’s lap. Running to Dallas, she threw up her arms, crying, “Auntie!

But she went and fetched some marigolds from her own little garden, and put them in a vase on the chest of drawers, for she knew there was lots of room for love, even if there was not much for great-aunties.

I didn't have enough other people in my life to cover the loss of this many people at once. I didn't have spare aunties or cousins or grandparents. I didn't have backup. I didn't have insurance to cover a loss like this.

Auntie An-mei had cried before she left for China, thinking she would make her brother very rich and happy by communist standards. But when she got home, she cried to me that everyone had a palm out and she was the only one who left with an empty hand.

The Ashanti, he reminded me, are guided by, and survive through, the forces of kinship and ancestral linkage. "We take care of each other on earth," he said. "If a family member asks for help, I give it. When a family member needs money for school fees or hospital bills, I send it. And my whole extended family loves you as if you are their child. We take care of each other's children. We raise each other's children. My cousins are my brothers and sisters. My aunts are also my mothers. Your aunts are your mothers, especially Auntie Harriet because she is my eldest sister. You will never be alone in this world." "And do you really believe our ancestors are watching over us?" I asked. He smiled. "I believe in the power of remembrance," he said. "And I believe love does not die with the body.

Our identities as people of color should not be defined solely by our struggles. But, as we are perpetually made to feel like others in this country, that’s how we are taught to understand ourselves. There’s so much love in my race. I’ve been trying to think of my race as a site of joy. The feeling I get when I see a South Asian or Muslim person succeeding, like I’ve swallowed a handful of fireflies, lighting up my stomach. I glow into the night. When an older South Asian woman I’ve never met calls me bayti and she transforms into my auntie.

He loved children and used to dandle me on his knee. This was how the title came about for this book, Uncle Hitler, although in the old German tradition, I called him Uncle Adolf, even though I was not related to him. This was a sign of respect to an older person, which is why I called Frau Eva ‘Aunty Eva’. However, little did I know at that time what revulsion the name Adolf Hitler would eventually invoke in the decent conscience of the world.

Well come here my cool nephew and give your auntie a hug.” Parker goes to make a run for it but Sam is faster. She picks him up and peppers his face full of kisses. “Aw man, come on.” He laughs, trying to push her face away. Sam pulls back with a frown. “Don’t tell me you can’t handle a few kisses.” He smirks at her. One I know well. “It’s not me who can’t handle it. It’s the ladies who can’t handle me.” Grace gasps in horror and my mom’s eyes bug out of her head. “Isn’t that right, Dad?” Oh shit!

Like most people I lived for a long time with my mother and father. My father liked to watch the wrestling, my mother liked to wrestle; it didn't matter what. She was in the white corner and that was that. She hung out the largest sheets on the windiest days. She wanted the Mormons to knock on the door. At election time in a Labour mill town she put a picture of the Conservative candidate in the window. She had never heard of mixed feelings. There were friends and there were enemies. Enemies were: The Devil (in his many forms) Next Door Sex (in its many forms) Slugs Friends were: God Our dog Auntie Madge The Novels of Charlotte Bronte Slug pellets and me, at first.

I wish we could sit together around the fire and tell one another the story of WOMAN, recounting the ceremonies of reverence for our deity and us in Her Image. I wish we could collectively hear the seasoned voices of our aunties, our grand-mothers and their grand-mothers through them, telling the age-old story of the love of woman, the love of life, the love our connection to the great mother Earth, from whence we come and into whose loving womb we will return when this journey is over, to be reborn again.

Iʼm going to love you for as long as I live. That sounds cheesy as hell, but I promise you, itʼs going to happen.

When Ifemelu met Obinze, she told Aunty Uju that she had met the love of her life, and Aunty Uju told her to let him kiss and touch but not to let him put it inside

Yeah, I’m tired of my mum and aunties praying over my love life as though I’m terminally ill.

My Aunty Frisco used to say that a man who has a strong relationship with fire is capable of historical love, because the flames keep the passion flowing in the smaller parts of the soul.

A very important man used to visit her sometimes, and I met him too. He loved children and used to dandle me on his knee. This was how the title came about for this book, Uncle Hitler, although in the old German tradition, I called him Uncle Adolf, even though I was not related to him. This was a sign of respect to an older person, which is why I called Frau Eva ‘Aunty Eva’.

He was so worthy of being loved; I didn’t want him to be alone. Something in my expression must have revealed what was on my mind. “No pity, Auntie. The winds do not always blow as the ship desires,

What I could tell the boy was, the moment we are born appears to be the very same moment we forget we are loved. Now isn't this awkward? Shouldn't the two things dovetail, love and memory? Shouldn't a feeling that powerful be carved on a tree so no one can ignore its message? To come so far to be in this world only to forget something all-important - what kind of a journey is that? I'll bet that 90 percent of the love that surrounds us is dismissed or discounted - the cup of tea a friend makes, the letter from a faraway auntie. The fact that no one feels loved enough merely proves my point.

But I suppose it's part of being old to feel that way, half in one world and half in the other, all of it mixed together in my mind. No one's left who even knows my name. Folks call me Auntie, on account of I never could have children of my own, and I guess that suits me fine. Sometime it's like I've got so many people inside of me I'm never alone at all. And when I go, I'll be taking them with me.

In Hawaii, family showed itself in the way that my siblings never dared to call one another "half" anything. We were fully brothers and sisters. Family appeared in the pile of rubber slippers and sandals that crowded the entrance to everyone's home; in the kisses we gave when we greeted one another and said good-bye; in the graceful choreography of Grandma hanging the laundry on the clothesline; in the inclusiveness of calling anyone older auntie or uncle whether or not they were relatives.

The cool thing about being a middle-aged woman is that they asked me if I wanted the security guard inside of the room or outside of the room, and I said, “Outside.” And the guard said, “You’ll be locked in, there’ll be no way for you to get out.” And I turned around and there was 21 guys looking at me. There’s something about being a middle-aged woman that just totally… I can rock the Auntie Lynda or grandma thing now. [Impersonating an old woman] “Now, you sit down! I don’t care about those tattoos! You just sit down.” [Laughter.] I really loved it. These are the people that I would venture to say probably went to public schools, probably went to difficult public schools, and now they’re in prison. Their ability to focus and write these stories was amazing; I mean their stories are.… I think the same thing that can get somebody in prison is the same thing that could make them a really good writer. Impulse control. There’s no, “Is this a bad convenience store to rob?” [Laughter.] “Is this a bad sentence?

Her advice on men was priceless. Auntie Vie said to never trust a man with a wandering eye—He’s most likely a sex addict . . . She said a woman should have a few men in her life—one for conversation, one for presents, one for sex. It was impossible to make one man responsible for it all. She told me that you get to have only one true love, and once you found it, whether you kept it or lost it, you’d never recover . . . Accepting that was the hardest part. Life was not going to be easy, and you couldn’t pretend your way through it. We’re all in the soup together, she

Whenever I am tempted to dismiss the poor or uneducated for their vulgar tastes, I see the face of old Auntie Braxton, as she stands stock still in front of our picket fence, lips parted to reveal her almost toothless gums, drinking in a polonaise as though it were heavenly nourishment.

While everyone else sleeps, I stare at Nathan like a complete creep and try to will him to continue loving me, even if his parents end up hating my family. Which is definitely perfectly healthy and respectable and not at all pathetic. “I can feel you staring,” he murmurs, eyes still closed.

Was he thin, and dark in the face?” “Yes; do you know him too?” “Why ‘too,’ Kit? Did Auntie Dinny know him?” “I think so; she said: ‘Oh!’ like that, and put her hand here. And then she looked after him; and then she sat down on the grass. I fanned her with her scarf. I love Auntie Dinny. Has she a husband?” “No.

Women in movies from Hollywood's golden era dressed the way my mother did now. My entire childhood, she'd shown up at PTA meeting in bust-hugging sequins, the sight of which gave my father complicated facial twitches. She was flamboyant, really, in no other way. There was nothing Auntie Mame about her. Unless Auntie Mame had a penchant for public collapse.

The table being round means all the dishes are equally within reach of everyone, but Chinese family meals aren't complete without everyone serving food to everyone else, because doing so shows love and respect, which means we all need to do it in the most attention-seeking way possible. What's the point of giving Big Aunt the biggest siu mai if nobody else notices?

On the one hand, Gramma and Grampar never mentioned sex at all. They must have done it, or they wouldn’t have had Auntie Teg and my mother, but I don’t think they did it more than twice. Then there’s the way they talk about sex in school and in church. And there’s no sex, hardly any love stuff at all, in Middle Earth, which always made me think yes, the world would be better off without it.

I opted not to go to Beirut. I refused to admit it, but Damascus was the last place I wanted to go. It was as though as long as I didn't go back, I could pretend that you would be there waiting for me, having a coffee on my auntie's patio and bouncing her baby on your knee. Going back to Damascus meant facing your absence, dispelling the illusion. Facing myself in the mirror is like that. If I never cut my hair if I don't acknowledge that I've never allowed anyone to really know me, I can pretend that a perfect road awaits me. I can pretend their some medicine that will magically allow me to see myself. But going down that road might mean discovering that there is no magic strong enough to bring me into harmony. Breaking the illusion means acknowledging the parts of myself that will never be visible.

There are those who sail through a ‘visit from Auntie Flo’, enduring little more than a twinge in the abdomen. And then there are people like me, who firmly believe their uterus is re-enacting the Battle of the Somme. Allow me to paint a picture for you. It’s fucking ugly. Your body bloats, your tits hurt and you sweat uncontrollably. Your crevices start to feel like a swamp and your head is pounding all the time. You feel like you have a cold – shivering, aching, nauseous – and have the hair-trigger emotions of someone who has not slept for days. But we’re not done yet. The intense cramping across your lower abdomen feels like the worst diarrhoea you’ve ever had – in fact, you’ll also get diarrhoea, to help with the crying fits. As your internal organs contract and tear themselves to blooded bits so you can lay an egg, blasts of searing pain rip through you. You bleed so much that all ‘intimate feminine hygiene products’ fail you – it’s like trying to control a lava flow with an oven mitt. You worry people can smell your period. You are terrified to sit on anything or stand up for a week in case you’ve bled through. And as you’re sitting, a crying, sweaty, wobbly, spotty, smelly mess, some bastard asks ‘Time of the month, love?’ And then you have to eat his head.

The world will continue, as it has for thousands upon thousands of years. We will live without our dear Maren. We will finish growing up and we will work and play and love. The sun and moon will take turns shining, clouds will sail across the skies, and rain will wash the earth. I will touch snow and smell flowers. Perhaps someday I will have a child, and I will tell her of her mermaid auntie. Or perhaps I will become a stork and fly wherever the winds take me.

All over England loving hands are packing trunks and tuck-boxes for the young gentlemen of Narkover, who reassemble today. Eager young voices are heard shouting, 'Mater! Don't forget to put in that pack of cards with the nicked aces,' or 'Auntie Frances, where have you put my dud half-crowns?' From many a home the father is, alas, temporarily absent, behind bars, but the lonely mother has the consolation of seeing her boy develop in the way his father would have wished.

Aunt Charlotte was everyone's Auntie, and provided the food: the ladies' sugared ratafias, plates of toasted cheese at four in the morning, and beef and eggs for the gentlemen's hearty breakfasts. But her pastry-cook's heart was in the buffets that glittered under the colored lamps: the sugarwork Pleasure Gardens, and Rocky Islands decorated with jellies, rock candies, and pyramids of sweetmeats. And best of all were the chocolate Little Devils, morsels of magic that all the gentlemen loved.

The last time I’d been unwell, suicidally depressed, whatever you want to call it, the reactions of my friends and family had fallen into several different camps: The Let’s Laugh It Off merchants: Claire was the leading light. They hoped that joking about my state of mind would reduce it to a manageable size. Most likely to say, ‘Feeling any mad urges to fling yourself into the sea?’ The Depression Deniers: they were the ones who took the position that since there was no such thing as depression, nothing could be wrong with me. Once upon a time I’d have belonged in that category myself. A subset of the Deniers was The Tough Love people. Most likely to say, ‘What have you got to be depressed about?’ The It’s All About Me bunch: they were the ones who wailed that I couldn’t kill myself because they’d miss me so much. More often than not, I’d end up comforting them. My sister Anna and her boyfriend, Angelo, flew three thousand miles from New York just so I could dry their tears. Most likely to say, ‘Have you any idea how many people love you?’ The Runaways: lots and lots of people just stopped ringing me. Most of them I didn’t care about, but one or two were important to me. Their absence was down to fear; they were terrified that whatever I had, it was catching. Most likely to say, ‘I feel so helpless … God, is that the time?’ Bronagh – though it hurt me too much at the time to really acknowledge it – was the number one offender. The Woo-Woo crew: i.e. those purveying alternative cures. And actually there were hundreds of them – urging me to do reiki, yoga, homeopathy, bible study, sufi dance, cold showers, meditation, EFT, hypnotherapy, hydrotherapy, silent retreats, sweat lodges, felting, fasting, angel channelling or eating only blue food. Everyone had a story about something that had cured their auntie/boss/boyfriend/next-door neighbour. But my sister Rachel was the worst – she had me plagued. Not a day passed that she didn’t send me a link to some swizzer. Followed by a phone call ten minutes later to make sure I’d made an appointment. (And I was so desperate that I even gave plenty of them a go.) Most likely to say, ‘This man’s a miracle worker.’ Followed by: ‘That’s why he’s so expensive. Miracles don’t come cheap.’ There was often cross-pollination between the different groupings. Sometimes the Let’s Laugh It Off merchants teamed up with the Tough Love people to tell me that recovering from depression is ‘simply mind over matter’. You just decide you’re better. (The way you would if you had emphysema.) Or an All About Me would ring a member of the Woo-Woo crew and sob and sob about how selfish I was being and the Woo-Woo crew person would agree because I had refused to cough up two grand for a sweat lodge in Wicklow. Or one of the Runaways would tiptoe back for a sneaky look at me, then commandeer a Denier into launching a two-pronged attack, telling me how well I seemed. And actually that was the worst thing anyone could have done to me, because you can only sound like a self-pitying malingerer if you protest, ‘But I don’t feel well. I feel wretched beyond description.’ Not one person who loved me understood how I’d felt. They hadn’t a clue and I didn’t blame them, because, until it had happened to me, I hadn’t a clue either.

...the process of transformation starts with decay..." "And then you have something beautiful?" asks Alma. "But first you have something ugly, my love. Foul and fair always live together," replies Ma. "And then you have a butterfly who...for all its beauty, will only live a few days," says Cookie Auntie. "Beauty is ephemeral," agrees Ma... "Ephemeral": short-lived, brief. Alma considers it. "But beauty will exist for the person who sees it. And after they have seen it, the person will not forget having seen it." ..."Beauty can live on. In memory, or a story, in language and words, in music," agrees Ma.

Hi, Auntie Sam,” Hope greets her with a smile. “I was hopin’ you’d be here. Me and Mama created a special auntie pie we’re gonna make just for you.” “You did?” Sam asks excitedly and carries Hope over to where Grace stands so she can hug her, too. “Yeah, it’s called Pain In The Ass Pie,” I say with a smirk, earning a glare from her. My mom smacks my shoulder. “Watch your mouth. Especially in front of the kids.” “Don’t worry, Grandma. We’ve heard him say much worse,” Parker tells her, throwing me under the bus. “Yeah,” Hope joins in. “We make a lot of money in the swear jar ’cause of him. Ain’t that right, Mama?

How much Dina Aunty relished her memories. Mummy and Daddy were the same, talking about their yesterdays and smiling in that sad-happy way while selecting each picture, each frame from the past, examining it lovingly before it vanished again in the mist. But nobody ever forgot anything, not really, though sometimes they pretended, when it suited them. Memories were permanent. Sorrowful ones remained sad even with the passing of time, yet happy ones could never be re-created—not with the same joy. Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.

She’d carried him home, pulled the buckshot pellets out of him, stitched him up, and nursed him back to health. He’d been by her side ever since. “He was lucky you found him,” I said after hearing the story. “Luck had nothing to do with it,” Auntie told me. “He and I were meant for one another.” I never saw such devotion in a dog—or any animal, for that matter. His wounds had healed, but the buckshot left him blind in his right eye, which was milky white. His ghost eye, Auntie called it. “He came so close to death, he’s got one eye back there still,” she explained. I loved Buckshot, but I hated that milky-white moon that seemed to see everything and nothing all at once.

Ahead, a house sits close to the road: a small, single-story place painted mint green. Ivy grows up one corner and onto the roof, the green tendrils swaying like a girl's hair let loose from a braid. In front there's a full and busy vegetable garden, with plants jostling for real estate and bees making a steady, low, collective hum. It reminds me of the aunties' gardens, and my nonna's when I was a kid. Tomato plants twist gently skywards, their lazy stems tied to stakes. Leafy heads of herbs- dark parsley, fine-fuzzed purple sage, bright basil that the caterpillars love to punch holes in. Rows and rows of asparagus. Whoever lives here must work in the garden a lot. It's wild but abundant, and I know it takes a special vigilance to maintain a garden of this size. The light wind lifts the hair from my neck and brings the smell of tomato stalks. The scent, green and full of promise, brings to mind a childhood memory- playing in Aunty Rosa's yard as Papa speaks with a cousin, someone from Italy. I am imagining families of fairies living in the berry bushes: making their clothes from spiderweb silk, flitting with wings that glimmer pink and green like dragonflies'.

The summer king customarily delivers a brief poem or statement before he convenes the special sessions. Enki gives them quite a bit more than that. “In the verde,” says Enki, as serious as I’ve ever seen him, “we love the storms. Sometimes, when we see one come in, the blocos will set up in the terraces and play until the rain drives us inside.” He pauses here, as though considering his next words, though I can tell he’s just savoring the moment. My last present from the verde must have gone through. Everyone in the audience shuffles uncomfortably. Nostrils flair, discreet coughs echo through the chamber. Some look at Enki, others at one another or the doorways. Enki takes a deep breath, as though he doesn’t notice a thing. “We have a saying,” he says as murmurs from his audience rise to a wave, “you can’t smell the catinga until it comes back home.” In the background, I can just make out several guards hurrying through the doors. Enki surveys his work and smiles, a sun breaking through clouds. “I hereby convene parliament.” As he saunters back to his seat, Auntie Isa rushes the podium with a handkerchief covering her nose and murder in her eyes. People stand up and hurry to the doors. They don’t know the smell will be even worse in the hallway. Our transport pods are all connected to the ventilation system. It’s meant to help refresh the air supply in the tunnels, but it can go the other direction. It can carry the fetid stink of the verde straight to the noses of people who pretend it doesn’t exist.

HEART OF TEA DEVOTION rc t c//'VI/~ L tLP /'V to/ a My dear, ifyou couldgive me a cup of tea to clear my muddle of a head I should better understand your affairs. CHARLES DICKENS If teacups could talk, my house would be full of conversation ... because my house is full of teacups. My collection of china cups-begun many years ago, when I set up housekeeping as a child bride-has long since outgrown its home in the glass-front armoire and spread out to occupy side tables and shelves and hooks in the kitchen or find safe harbor in the dining-room hutch. Some of these cups I inherited from women I love-my mother and my aunties. Some are gifts from my husband, Bob, or from my children or from special friends. A few are delightful finds from elegant boutiques or dusty antique shops. One cup bears telltale cracks and scars; it was the only one I could salvage when a shelf slipped and 14 cups fell and shattered. Three other cups stand out for their intense color-my aunt was always attracted to that kind of dramatic decoration. Yet another cup, a gift, is of a style I've never much cared for, but now it makes me smile as I remember the houseguest who "rescued" it from a dark corner of the armoire because it looked "lonely." Each one of my teacups has a history, and each one is precious to me. I have gladly shared them with guests and told their stories to many people. Recently, however, I have been more inclined to listen. I've been wondering what all those cups, with their history and long experience, are trying to say to me. What I hear from them, over and over, is an invitation-one I want to extend to you: When did you last have a tea party? When was the last time you enjoyed a cup of tea with someone you care about? Isn't it time you did it again?

...When my nephew was three, [his mother] was worrying about getting him into the right preschool. Kid's fifteen now. He's under pressure to make sure he gets good grades so he can get into a good school. He needs to show good extracurricular activities to get into a good school. He needs to be popular with his classmates. Which means be just like them. Dress right, use the proper slang, listen to proper music, go away on the proper vacations. Live in the right neighborhood, be sure his parents drive the right car, hang with the right group, have the right interests. He has homework. He has soccer practice and guitar lessons. The school decides what he has to learn, and when, and from whom. The school tells him which stairwell he can go up. It tells him how fast to move through the corridors, when he can talk, when he can't, when he can chew gum, when he can have lunch, what he is allowed to wear..." Rita paused and took a drink. "Boy", I said. "Ready for corporate life." She nodded. "And the rest of the world is telling him he's carefree," she said. "And all the time he's worried that the boys will think he's a sissy, and the school bully will beat him up, and the girls will think he's a geek." "Hard times," I said. "The hardest," she said. "And while he's going through puberty and struggling like hell to come to terms with the new person he's becoming, running through it all, like salt in a wound, is the self-satisfied adult smirk that keeps trivializing his angst." "They do learn to read and write and do numbers," I said. "They do. And they do that early. And after that, it's mostly bullshit. And nobody ever consults the kid about it." "You spend time with this kid," I said. "I do my Auntie Mame thing every few weeks. He takes the train in from his hideous suburb. We go to a museum, or shop, or walk around and look at the city. We have dinner. We talk. He spends the night, and I usually drive him back in the morning." "What do you tell him?" I said. "I tell him to hang on," Rita said. She was leaning a little forward now, each hand resting palm-down on the table, her drink growing warm with neglect. "I tell him that life in the hideous suburb is not all the life there is. I tell him it will get better in a few years. I tell him that he'll get out of that stultifying little claustrophobic coffin of a life, and the walls will fall away and he'll have room to move and choose, and if he's tough enough, to have a life of his own making." As she spoke, she was slapping the tabletop softly with her right hand. "If he doesn't explode first," she said. "Your jury summations must be riveting," I said. She laughed and sat back. "I love that kid," she said. "I think about it a lot." "He's lucky to have you. Lot of them have no one." Rita nodded. "Sometimes I want to take him and run," she said. The wind shifted outside, and the rain began to rattle against the big picture window next to us. It collected and ran down, distorting reality and blurring the headlights and taillights and traffic lights and colorful umbrellas and bright raincoats into a kind of Parisian shimmer. "I know," I said.

to look at Louisa, stroked her cheek, and was rewarded by a dazzling smile. She had been surprised by how light-skinned the child was. Her features were much more like Eva’s than Bill’s. A small turned-up nose, big hazel eyes, and long dark eyelashes. Her golden-brown hair protruded from under the deep peak of her bonnet in a cascade of ringlets. “Do you think she’d come to me?” Cathy asked. “You can try.” Eva handed her over. “She’s got so heavy, she’s making my arms ache!” She gave a nervous laugh as she took the parcel from Cathy and peered at the postmark. “What’s that, Mam?” David craned his neck and gave a short rasping cough. “Is it sweets?” “No, my love.” Eva and Cathy exchanged glances. “It’s just something Auntie Cathy’s brought from the old house. Are you going to show Mikey your flags?” The boy dug eagerly in his pocket, and before long he and Michael were walking ahead, deep in conversation about the paper flags Eva had bought for them to decorate sand castles. Louisa didn’t cry when Eva handed her over. She seemed fascinated by Cathy’s hair, and as they walked along, Cathy amused her by singing “Old MacDonald.” The beach was only a short walk from the station, and it wasn’t long before the boys were filling their buckets with sand. “I hardly dare open it,” Eva said, fingering the string on the parcel. “I know. I was desperate to open it myself.” Cathy looked at her. “I hope you haven’t built up your hopes, too much, Eva. I’m so worried it might be . . . you know.” Eva nodded quickly. “I thought of that too.” She untied the string, her fingers trembling. The paper fell away to reveal a box with the words “Benson’s Baby Wear” written across it in gold italic script. Eva lifted the lid. Inside was an exquisite pink lace dress with matching bootees and a hat. The label said, “Age 2–3 Years.” Beneath it was a handwritten note:   Dear Eva, This is a little something for our baby girl from her daddy. I don’t know the exact date of her birthday, but I wanted you to know that I haven’t forgotten. I hope things are going well for you and your husband. Please thank him from me for what he’s doing for our daughter: he’s a fine man and I don’t blame you for wanting to start over with him. I’m back in the army now, traveling around. I’m due to be posted overseas soon, but I don’t know where yet. I’ll write and let you know when I get my new address. It would be terrific if I could have a photograph of her in this little dress, if your husband doesn’t mind. Best wishes to you all, Bill   For several seconds they sat staring at the piece of paper. When Eva spoke, her voice was tight with emotion. “Cathy, he thinks I chose to stay with Eddie!” Cathy nodded, her mind reeling. “Eddie showed me the letter he sent. Bill wouldn’t have known you were in Wales, would he? He would have assumed you and Eddie had already been reunited—that he’d written with your consent on behalf of you both.” She was afraid to look at Eva. “What are you going to do?” Eva’s face had gone very pale. “I don’t know.” She glanced at David, who was jabbing a Welsh flag into a sand castle. “He said he was going to be posted overseas. Suppose they send him to Britain?” Cathy bit her lip. “It could be anywhere, couldn’t it? It could be the other side of the world.” She could see what was going through Eva’s mind. “You think if he came here, you and he could be together without . . .” Her eyes went to the boys. Eva gave a quick, almost imperceptible nod, as if she was afraid someone might see her. “What about Eddie?” “I don’t know!” The tone of her voice made David look up. She put on a smile, which disappeared the

But the process of our mothers and aunties and big sisters and grandmothers lovingly tugging our hair into place is often the first lesson Black girls learn about the inherently tough conditions we face, about how much effort it will take to prepare us to face a waiting world, about where our safe havens are and always will be—in community with women. Who you let put their fingers in your head is sacred.

After an hour of romping along the hedgerow and through the orchard, Beatrix took Rye back to the house for his afternoon lessons. “I don’t like lessons,” Rye said, heaving a sigh as they approached the French doors at the side of the house. “I’d much rather play.” “Yes, but you must learn your maths.” “I don’t need to, really. I already know how to count to a hundred. And I’m sure I’ll never need more than a hundred of anything.” Beatrix grinned. “Practice your letters, then. And you’ll be able to read lots of adventure stories.” “But if I spend my time reading about adventures,” Rye said, “I won’t actually be having them.” Beatrix shook her head and laughed. “I should know better than to debate with you, Rye. You’re as clever as a cart full of monkeys.” The child scampered up the stairs and turned to look back at her. “Aren’t you coming in, Auntie?” “Not yet,” she said absently, her gaze drawn to the forest beyond Ramsay House. “I think I’ll go for a walk.” “Shall I come with you?” “Thank you, Rye, but at the moment I need a solitary walk.” “You’re going to look for the dog,” he said wisely. Beatrix smiled. “I might.” Rye regarded her speculatively. “Auntie?” “Yes?” “Are you ever going to marry?” “I hope so, Rye. But I have to find the right gentleman first.” “If no one else will marry you, I will when I’m grown up. But only if I’m taller, because I wouldn’t want to look up at you.” “Thank you,” she said gravely, suppressing a smile as she turned and strode toward the forest.

No, I’m better than my cousins. Better than my uncles—and I sure as hell am better than my father. I won’t abandon my family. Not for love, not for anything.

It took a broken menstrual pad dispenser, a chance encounter, an inheritance, a failing company, a distillery, a rishta auntie, a hapless suitor, a spreadsheet, seven dates, a sword, extra-hot pork vindaloo, an Irish brawl, a sick dog, endless games of Guitar Hero, a hockey game, Shark Stew, a broken bed, a walk of shame, a quiz night, back-office shenanigans, a jealous ex, a motorcycle crash, a crisis of conscience, a break up, six pints of ice cream, four pounds of gummy bears, a partnership offer, a heart-to-heart, a family interrogation, a grovel, and a death-defying midnight climb to get them together.

Auntie tended to my grandmother’s final journey. I loved GrandMary and I know she loved me. Correction—I love her, and she loves me. When our loved ones die, the love stays alive in the present.

Love cannot penetrate what truth does not facilitate

May I live as loud as I love you!

So it felt significant—generous—for Auntie to sit here and tell me that the way my mother raised me was unfair. It was a permission of sorts to recognize—even among this generation that was so inured to pain—that the way I was brought up” “was not right. Not how it was supposed to be. It had been so unfair, it seemed, that Auntie had placed a finger on the scale of my life, trying to level things. All that time, I had not actually been the favorite child. I was not loved more or less than anyone else. But the truth was something better than that: I had been seen. My family had seen me. And they loved me enough to orchestrate a grand performance that had spanned decades and involved my entire family. All those years of “Ho gwaai, ho gwaai. You’re so well-behaved. You’re such a good girl.” At first, those lines were crafted to show my mother that I was deserving of love. That didn’t work. But perhaps they were also endeavoring to show me.

He loves me, and I won’t ever let him go or do anything to change that.” “And here I was about to tell you to make a run for it. It’s your funeral, girly. Enjoy the honeymoon. Well, after Auntie Flo makes her departure.

Aunty Whimsy: I've visited forests under the sea, savored cotton candy pink tea, and met the pope of a very small country! And these are only some of the many special things our world has to offer--if you're willing to seek them out! Safia: Have you experienced them all yet? Aunty Whimsy: Oh! If only! The trouble with being a lover of this world is that you'll never have enough of it. No matter how old you get...You'll always find one more reason to stay in love. And that's why--the adventure never ends.

I would have loved it if you could have known everything about me without my having to say anything, yet at the same time, creaking rustily somewhere down inside me, the words had already taken shape – about the Barrage, and Father, Ambrus and Auntie Irma's shoes, and everything... and I was afraid that I would start crying, though there was no reason t cry because I was at last happy, as happy as I had ever been in my life.

Occasionally, over the years, she’d fantasized about Norah getting pregnant. Unlike Alicia, Norah had a lot of sex, and also unlike Alicia, she had a profound dislike of children. In the fantasy, Norah would birth the child and Jessica would graciously step in and raise it as if it were her own, leaving Norah to be the favorite aunty. She would perform every role required of a mother and more. She’d be fiercer, more loving than she’d ever been. Which really begged the question: if she could do that for Norah’s child, why not her own?

She shuffled us out like two jokers in her cards reminding us to go to Auntie’s house before dark, and telling us again she loved us.

Last week of June 2012 The next set of questionnaires arrived from Dr. Arius sooner than I had anticipated. The good doctor inquired: Dear Young, Thank you for being honest, truthful and straight to the point with your answers. I appreciate you taking the time to respond to my queries. Here’s the next set of questions for you to ponder. * How did you react when you were in your father’s presence? * Did you get to meet or know his mistress Annie? If so, how did you find her as a person? Was she the kind of woman that your aunties said she was? How was your rapport with her and vice versa? * Did you ever try to resolve your differences with your dad in later years? * How did you feel when you entered Daltonbury Hall? Was your life in Malaya very different from your life in England? How did you cope when you first arrived in the United Kingdom? * What were your reactions when you were suddenly assigned to a good-looking and understanding ‘big brother’? During your early days at the boarding school, did you open up immediately to your ‘big brother’ Nikee or to other ‘big brothers’ in your House? * Were you unreserved by nature or was it a learned trait? As always, I enjoy our regular correspondence. I feel like I already know you even though we have not met. I hope one day, in the not-too-distant future, I’ll have the opportunity to talk with you in person. Take excellent care of your good self. Best Wishes! Love, A. S.

You might have tried to stop her,” she exclaimed. As she glanced up at Christopher, a scowl flitted across her face. “Oh. It’s you.” “Miss Hathaway--” he began. “Hold this.” Something warm and wriggling was thrust into his grasp, and Beatrix dashed off to pursue the goat. Dumbfounded, Christopher glanced at the creature in his hands. A baby goat, cream colored, with a brown head. He fumbled to keep from dropping the creature as he glanced at Beatrix’s retreating form and realized she was wearing breeches and boots. Christopher had seen women in every imaginable state of dress or undress. But he had never seen one wearing the clothes of a stablehand. “I must be having a dream,” he told the squirming kid absently. “A very odd dream about Beatrix Hathaway and goats…” “I have her!” the masculine voice called out. “Beatrix, I told you the pen needed to be made taller.” “She didn’t leap over it,” came Beatrix’s protest, “she ate through it.” “Who let her into the house?” “No one. She butted one of the side doors open.” An inaudible conversation followed. As Christopher waited, a dark-haired boy of approximately four or five years of age made a breathless entrance through the front door. He was carrying a wooden sword and had tied a handkerchief around his head, which gave him the appearance of a miniature pirate. “Did they catch the goat?” he asked Christopher without preamble. “I believe so.” “Oh, thunderbolts. I missed all the fun.” The boy sighed. He looked up at Christopher. “Who are you?” “Captain Phelan. The child’s gaze sharpened with interest. “Where’s your uniform?” “I don’t wear it now that the war is over.” “Did you come to see my father?” “No, I…came to call on Miss Hathaway.” “Are you one of her suitors?” Christopher gave a decisive shake of his head. “You might be one,” the boy said wisely, “and just not know it yet.” Christopher felt a smile--his first genuine smile in a long time--pulling at his lips. “Does Miss Hathaway have many suitors?” “Oh, yes. But none of them want to marry her.” “Why is that, do you imagine?” “They don’t want to get shot,” the child said, shrugging. “Pardon?” Christopher’s brows lifted. “Before you marry, you have to get shot by an arrow and fall in love,” the boy explained. He paused thoughtfully. “But I don’t think the rest of it hurts as much as the beginning.” Christopher couldn’t prevent a grin. At that moment, Beatrix returned to the hallway, dragging the nanny goat on a rope lead. Beatrix looked at Christopher with an arrested expression. His smile faded, and he found himself staring into her blue-on-blue eyes. They were astonishingly direct and lucid…the eyes of a vagabond angel. One had the sense that no matter what she beheld of the sinful world, she would never be jaded. She reminded him that the things he had seen and done could not be polished away like tarnish from silver. Gradually her gaze lowered from his. “Rye,” she said, handing the lead to the boy. “Take Pandora to the barn, will you? And the baby goat as well.” Reaching out, she took the kid from Christopher’s arms. The touch of her hands against his shirtfront elicited an unnerving response, a pleasurable heaviness in his groin. “Yes, Auntie.” The boy left through the front door, somehow managing to retain possession of the goats and the wooden sword. Christopher stood facing Beatrix, trying not to gape. And failing utterly. She might as well have been standing there in her undergarments. In fact, that would have been preferable, because at least it wouldn’t have seemed so singularly erotic. He could see the feminine outline of her hips and thighs clad in the masculine garments. And she didn’t seem at all self-conscious. Confound her, what kind of woman was she?

A larceny and a missing. Me ears-ring missing and she larcen it. That gal just buss ‘way like kite. She is a little duty gyal, that one. Never take no instruction from her mother. From she born, me say, this little one, this little one going turn slut like her auntie. Sometime me wonder if is fi her own or fi me. Anyway, she gone from Wednesday morning. Leave out before the sun even rise and is not the first time neither. But this time she take me ears-ring and me Julia of Paris shoes. Me no business bout the shoes. Imagine, she take off to go school from four in the morning? I mean to say, who love school so much that they leave four hour early? Me can smoke in here?

Abigail entered the room, leaving the door open behind her, and sat down at the foot of Amy's bed. “I don't like this,” she said with a sigh. “You don't like what?” “Aunty Becca is here,” explained the girl. Amy shrugged. “Yeah? So, what? You love it when Becca comes to visit. She's a lot of fun.” Abigail tugged at her bubblegum-colored pajama top and shook her head. “No, it's not good. The man with the doggie-face doesn't like her being here.” She looked up at her sister narrowly. “At least, that's what Frankie says. He says that, if auntie Becca is here, we may not be able to play anymore.

Looking down from a fork in the tree, a little girl shivers in the bitter autumn wind. She could be inside in the warmth. Inside; amidst all the smelly pots and pans and piles of dirty clothes. The darkened lounge room flickering out a constant reel of cartoons; the light outside strangled as it tries to valiantly penetrate curtains too hard for a child to open. Michelle had gone into her Auntie’s room, as she had done many times before, to say that she will just be outside. ‘Okay my dearie,’ came the exhausted reply. There Patricia lay, her crumpled hair peeping out from the blankets. The stale, sour, smell of too much hibernation trapped in that tiny room. Her frayed sequin shoes left discarded near the door. The feather cap hanging limply from her dresser door, waiting for life to ride underneath it once again and for the wind to make it shimmer with delight. Michelle had walked outside, hoping that this canyon of loneliness would not follow her down the stairs. Out into the sounds of activity, the fresh waft of sea air, and the theatrical display of birdlife. There, Michelle now sits, watching it all as she reunites with the silent strength of her tree.

In the course of a day, you can run around until your feet turn black and blue. We didn’t have any shoes. You go to bed, and your aunt wraps your feet in the hem of her nightgown to warm them. She’d swaddle me. You can lie there somewhere near her stomach…It’s like being in the womb…And that’s why I don’t remember anything evil. I’ve forgotten it all…It’s hidden away in some distant place. In the morning, I would be woken up by my aunt’s voice: “I made potato pancakes. Have some.” “Auntie, I want to sleep more.” “Eat some and then you can go back to sleep.” She understood that food, bliny, were like medicine to me. Pancakes and love. My uncle Vitalik was a shepherd, he carried a whip over his shoulder and had a long birch-bark pipe. He went around in his military jacket and breeches. He’d bring us “feed” from the pasture—there’d be some cheese and a piece of salo—whatever the women gave him while the animals grazed. Holy poverty! It didn’t mean anything to them, they weren’t upset or insulted by it. All of this is so important to me…so precious. One of my friends complains, “I can’t afford a new car…” another, “I dreamt of it my whole life, but I never did manage to buy myself a mink coat…” When people say those kinds of things to me, it’s like they’re speaking from behind glass…The only thing I regret is not being able to wear short skirts anymore…[We laugh.]

God loves you crazily, like I love you, Rae said, like a slightly overweight auntie, who sees only your marvelousness and need.

knitting as well, then?” “No,” laughed Auntie Jem. “It’s a metaphor.” Norm didn’t care what it was for. He just needed to talk to Mikey. Alone. “You coming, love?” said Norm’s mum, setting off with Auntie Jem. “In a minute, Mum,” said Norm. “OK,

Auntie Mame sat decoratively on a Louis XIV love seat and discussed the heat, the humidity, how the climate was changing from year to year in New York,

Bob is a perfectly fine name. So is Baboo." "And Layla is a lovely name," Bob said. "Did you know it means 'dark beauty' in Arabic? It suits you." "Thank you." Her smile faded when Sam scowled. "It's a tragic name," Sam said. "Very unlucky. I'm sure you know the Arabian legend of Qays and Layla, a young couple who fell so deeply in love they were unable to contain their passionate devotion." "What exactly does that mean?" Layla asked, hoping to distract him in case Bob was superstitious like Lakshmi Auntie. India had a billion-dollar superstition-centric industry focused on astrology, black magic, and fake babas. An unlucky name had derailed more than one prospective marriage. "Is it anything like being unable to contain your opinion about things no one asked you about?" "I'm sure we can all guess what it means." Sam didn't address her sarcastic quip. "Layla used poor Qays for his magnificent body and then went prowling around for a new man only hours after leaving his bed. It caused quite the scandal in their conservative community. Qays was denied her hand in marriage and prevented from seeing her ever again, although why he would want her after that, I don't know. Distraught, he fled into the wilderness while chanting love poems about his darling Layla until he descended into madness and death.

It was three weeks later that the letter from Rose’s publisher arrived. He had written to say that he loved the idea of a book about herbal remedies for humans. The letter contained an advance that would tide her over until well after the baby was due. “We’re going to be all right, aren’t we?” She passed the check to Lola, who passed it on to Nieve. They beamed at each other as the child read the amount out loud. “What’s that funny squiggle in front of the number?” She thrust the check up to Rose’s face. “It’s a pound sign—in England we have pounds instead of pesetas.” “How much is it—in pesetas?” When Rose told her, Nieve gasped. “Just for writing a book?” “It’s going to take me quite a long time.” Rose smiled. “And when she’s finished it, she’s going to need a rest.” Lola scooped Nieve up and sat her on her lap. “Why?” “Because next year—in the spring—Auntie Rose is going to have a baby.” Nieve turned to Rose, her mouth open. “Will it be a girl or a boy?” Rose laughed. “I don’t know! We’ll have to wait and see.” “Can I choose its name?” “Well, if it’s a girl, yes, you can—but if it’s a boy . . .” Rose glanced at Lola. “I already have a boy’s name.” “I think I can guess,” Lola said. “Nathan.

Jake1010Hotelier: Oh. Wow, okay. Damn, girl, you’re even thirstier than I thought. Meddelin Chan: Haha! No, no, not thirsty! I have a lot to drink. Quite wet now. Jake1010Hotelier: Wow. Damn. If I’d known, I would’ve asked you out sooner. Meddelin Chan: Wah! How you know eggplant my favorite?? Jake1010Hotelier: It is, huh? Well, I’ve got a real big one for you. Meddelin Chan: Oh! I can’t wait! LOVE eggplant!! I

For their sake, I pretend to love all of it—the fuss and the huge production and everything—but it’s slowly eroding what I love about photography. For months now, I’ve toyed with the idea of leaving the wedding business, of going back to what I love about photography—to be able to take my time, play around with different lenses and lighting and angles instead of rushing to take photo after photo of the same stuff. Not that I can ever reveal any of this to my family.

Don’t miss out on love because you think we got curse, so silly, you. I thought you are more educated than that.

She thought it was the color of her aura. At least that’s what she always said. Her and Auntie Waldine were always going on about things like that. Auras and chakras and astrological charts. I once asked them where church fit in with all their mystical practices, and they said God was an idea that meant different things to different people, but the bottom line was positivity and love. They didn’t see religion as being at odds with any of their other beliefs, since the point of all of it was to elevate the spirit.

Have I told you today why I love you?” Carter takes a step toward me, then another, his smile growing with each inch he eliminates. “I love you because you’re funny and snarky, sarcastic as all hell, and the night we met, you told me to go fuck myself.” He ignores the way Cara shrieks his name. “You’re also kind and soft, sensitive and sweet, the best auntie, and a teacher I would’ve died to have in high school. You’re not just my girlfriend; you’re my biggest cheerleader and my best friend.” He takes my face in his hands, thumbs wiping at the overflowing tears dripping down my cheeks. I don’t even know where they came from. “Why are you crying, Ollie girl? I haven’t even gotten to the good stuff yet.” “I don’t know what’s going on, but you called me your best friend and your girlfriend,” I sob, folding toward his chest as I grip the loosened collar of his shirt. His soft chuckle is warm against my lips as he tips my chin up to kiss me. He takes a step backward, dipping his hand in his pocket, pulling out a small velvet box, and he sinks to one knee. “I’m hoping to call you something else when I’m done doing what I need to do here.

Guilt lances through my gut. They’re not wrong. I really am being an ungrateful brat. And I know that they’ve done all of this out of love, to impress Nathan’s family for my sake. But still! Argh!

I close my eyes. I hear the voices of the past in the wind and in the beating of my heart. My two mothers, my two fathers, and my dear uncle all tried to tell me I was wrong about the People's Republic of China. In the beginning, going all the way back to the University of Chicago, I thought socialism and communism were good, that people should share equally, that it wasn't fair that my family had suffered in America when others drove fancy cars, lived in big houses, and shopped in Beverly Hills. I ran away and came here in hopes of finding an ideal world, to find my birth father, to avoid my mother and aunt, and to crush my guilt. None of that worked the way I expected. The ideal world was filled with hypocrisy and with people like Z.G., who went to parties while the masses suffered. In finding my birth father, I only remembered how wonderful my father Sam was. He loved me unconditionally, while Z.G. wanted me as a muse, as a pretty daughter to show off, as a physical manifestation of his love for Auntie May, as an artist who would reflect how great an artist he is. I thought I could use idealism to solve my inner conflicts, but in healing my inner conflicts I destroyed my idealism. As I gaze into my daughter's face, everything becomes very clear. My mother and aunt loved me, stood by me, and supported me, no matter what. They were both good mothers. My greatest misery and grief is that I have not been a good mother and I can't save my daughter. I pray that in our final days and hours Samantha will know how much I love her.

Normally, the sight of this would have made me cringe and wish for a hole to fall into, but now I merely bite back a smile. Because now I see that they’re not trying to embarrass me. This has nothing to do with me. My family has never played by the rules. They don’t care how others might perceive them. They’re just making the best of their trip to England, embracing everything about the place and having the time of their lives, and how can I not love that?

Earth Sun. 22 Exotic. 23 Literally, “see, see, see.” Figuratively, “hey, listen up, everyone.” 24 Bunnies. 25 Loving Auntie. 26 Fear the mouse!

I cannot believe that deliberately setting out to kill another creature is what Loving Auntie wants us to do. Yah is love. Book of Heather, 19:3.

I’m really trying not to deploy my temper—Auntie Och calls it “Rika-chan’s kaiju,” or giant monster, after all the Japanese creature movies she watches on “the YouTube,” holding her phone screen way too close to her face.

Or the anime-obsessed white girls who frequent my Aunties’ katsu restaurant and order me to speak to them in “an authentic Japanese accent.” I once dumped a full can of Coke on Queen Becky, the Ultimate White Girl Who Just, Like, Loves Asian Culture, and it felt so good

How Auntie Suzy did her Good Asian Duty by taking care of family. How my mother was such a tragedy, she’d had such potential before she got pregnant at fifteen—so beautiful and charismatic, able to charm the pants off of anyone she met with a smile. How it must be tough on the remaining Rakuyamas since I look so . . . different