Reminds Me Of My Dad Quotes

Remind me again-why do you hate me so much?" I don't hate you." Could've fooled me." She folded her cap of invisibility. "Look...we're just not supposed to get along, okay? Our parents are rivals." Why?" She sighed. "How many reasons do you want? One time my mom caught Poseidon with his girlfriend in Athena's temple, which is hugely disrespectful. Another time, Athena and Poseidon competed to be the patron god for the city of Athens. Your dad created some stupid saltwater spring for his gift. My mom created the olive tree. The people saw that her gift was better, so they named the city after her." They must really like olives." Oh, forget it." Now, if she'd invented pizza-that I could understand.

Other dads actually sat at the dinner table. Mine left me a fifty and a reminder to do my goddamn katas.

Amos sipped his coffee. The faraway look on his face reminded me of my dad. “I don’t want to scare you.” “Too late.

God! You'll do anything to avoid it.' Avoid what?' my mother said. The past,' Caroline said. 'Our past. I'm tired of acting like nothing ever happened, of pretending he was never here, of not seeing his pictures in the house, or his things Just because you're not able to let yourself grieve.' Don't,' my mother said, her voice low, 'talk to me about grief. You have no idea.' I do, though.' Caroline's voice caught, and she swallowed. 'I'm not trying to hide that I'm sad. I'm not trying to forget. You hide here behind all these plans for houses and townhouses because they're new and perfect and don't remind you of anything.' Stop it,' my mother said. And look at Macy,' Caroline continued, ignoring this.' Do you even know what you're doing to her?' My mother looked at me, and I shrank back, trying to stay out of this. 'Macy is fine,' my mother said. No, she's not. God you always say that, but she's not.' Caroline looked at me, as if she wanted me to jump in, but I just sat there. 'Have you even been paying the least bit of attention to what's going on with her? She's been miserable since Dad died, pushing herself so hard to please you. And then, this summer, she finally finds some friends and something she likes to do. But then one tiny slipup, and you take it all away from her.' That has nothing to do with what we're talking about,' my mother said. It has everything to do with it,' Caroline shot back. 'She was finally getting over what happened. Couldn't you see the change in her? I could, and I was berely here. She was different.' Exactly,' my mother said. 'She was-' Happy,' Caroline finished for her. 'She was starting to live her life again, and it scared you. Just like me redoing the beach house scares you. You think you're so strong becasue you never talk about Dad. Anyone can hide. Facing up to things, working through them, that's what makes you strong.

Maggie made me feel stronger. She reminded me that I wasn’t alone in this world. That others had gone through this too. That I could be what my momma needed me to be... what my dad needed me to be.

I’ve had a lot of sucks in life A lot My parents died almost four years ago, right after I turned seven With every day that goes by I remember them less and less Like my mom…I remember that she used to sing. She was always happy, always dancing. Other than what I’ve seen of her in pictures, I don’t really remember what she looks like. Or what she smells like Or what she sounds like And my Dad I remember more things about him, but only because I thought he was the most amazing man in the world. He was smart. He knew the answer to everything. And he was strong. And he played the guitar. I used to love lying in bed at night, listening to the music coming from the living room. I miss that the most. His music. After they died, I went to live with my grandma and grandpaul. Don’t get me wrong…I love my grandparents. But I loved my home even more. It reminded me of them. Of my mom and dad. My brother had just started college the year they died. He knew how much I wanted to be home. He knew how much it meant to me, so he made it happen. I was only seven at the time, so I let him do it. I let him give up his entire life just so I could be home. Just so I wouldn’t be so sad. If I could do it all over again, I would have never let him take me. He deserved a shot, too. A shot at being young. But sometimes when you’re seven, the world isn’t in 3-D. So, I owe a lot to my brother. A lot of ‘thank you’d’ A lot of ‘I’m sorry’s’ A lot of ‘I love you’s’ I owe a lot to you, Will For making the sucks in my life a little less suckier And my sweet? My sweet is right now.

Because, Seaweed Brain, it’s the first time we really talked, you and me. I told you about my family, and…” She took out her camp necklace, strung with her dad’s college ring and a colorful clay bead for each year at Camp Half-Blood. Now there was something else on the leather cord: a red coral pendant Percy had given her when they had started dating. He’d brought it from his father’s palace at the bottom of the sea. “And,” Annabeth continued, “it reminds me how long we’ve known each other. We were twelve, Percy. Can you believe that?” “No,” he admitted. “So…you knew you liked me from that moment?” She smirked. “I hated you at first. You annoyed me. Then I tolerated you for a few years. Then—” “Okay, fine.

POCKET-SIZED FEMINISM The only other girl at the party is ranting about feminism. The audience: a sea of rape jokes and snapbacks and styrofoam cups and me. They gawk at her mouth like it is a drain clogged with too many opinions. I shoot her an empathetic glance and say nothing. This house is for wallpaper women. What good is wallpaper that speaks? I want to stand up, but if I do, whose coffee table silence will these boys rest their feet on? I want to stand up, but if I do, what if someone takes my spot? I want to stand up, but if I do, what if everyone notices I’ve been sitting this whole time? I am guilty of keeping my feminism in my pocket until it is convenient not to, like at poetry slams or my women’s studies class. There are days I want people to like me more than I want to change the world. There are days I forget we had to invent nail polish to change color in drugged drinks and apps to virtually walk us home at night and mace disguised as lipstick. Once, I told a boy I was powerful and he told me to mind my own business. Once, a boy accused me of practicing misandry. You think you can take over the world? And I said No, I just want to see it. I just need to know it is there for someone. Once, my dad informed me sexism is dead and reminded me to always carry pepper spray in the same breath. We accept this state of constant fear as just another part of being a girl. We text each other when we get home safe and it does not occur to us that our guy friends do not have to do the same. You could saw a woman in half and it would be called a magic trick. That’s why you invited us here, isn’t it? Because there is no show without a beautiful assistant? We are surrounded by boys who hang up our naked posters and fantasize about choking us and watch movies we get murdered in. We are the daughters of men who warned us about the news and the missing girls on the milk carton and the sharp edge of the world. They begged us to be careful. To be safe. Then told our brothers to go out and play.

When I found my dad, I knew things were going to change forever, but sitting next to her, getting ready to see my dad buried, I felt it in a different way. Everything ached. This reminds me of that - how it aches. But it's a better ache, too. I'm hopeful. I can't remember the last time I felt hopeful.

My nose bleeds, and every comedown feels like an overdose. I try to make peace with God each time, but he shows no interest, and it reminds me of my dad, and I get so upset that I just have to do another line. Like I said, a cycle.

I also think my dad would be reminding me that kids— more than anything else—need to know their parents love them. Their parents don’t have to be alive for that to happen.

My dad’s funeral was one of those instances when you’re reminded of what it means to show up for people. The tradition

You know, I have to tell you"--I tried to make my voice bright to lighten the moo--"this ring of yours has got to be the ugliest thing I have ever seen." "I'm insulted." He held his hand up to the moonlight and straightened the monstrosity on his finger. "My dad gave this to me when we moved to Michigan.'To remember the old life' he said. I've never taken it off. I look at it and see California." "Remind me never to visit California.

Not a big fan of funerals, to be honest,” he said. He looked away. “Reminds me of my dad. It was years ago, but it’s still hard, you know?” I nodded; that made sense. Time only blunts the pain of loss. It doesn’t erase it.

It was only then that I glanced back and saw Dad, still standing at the checkpoint, watching me walk away, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders slumping, his mouth slackened. I waved and he stepped forward, as if to follow, and I was reminded of the moment, years before, when power lines had covered the station wagon, with Mother inside it, and Dad had stood next to her, exposed. He was still holding that posture when I turned the corner. That image of my father will always stay with me: that look on his face, of love and fear and loss. I knew why he was afraid. He’d let it slip my last night on Buck’s Peak, the same night he’d said he wouldn’t come to see me graduate. “If you’re in America,” he’d whispered, “we can come for you. Wherever you are. I’ve got a thousand gallons of fuel buried in the field. I can fetch you when The End comes, bring you home, make you safe. But if you cross the ocean…

That waitress was flirting with me," Dad announced once we were out of the restaurant. He said it in his "whispering voice," which meant it was still loud enough for the waitress, all of her coworkers, and the shoppers at every other store in the mall to overhear. "Ew," I said. "She was not." Dad chuckled with delight over how hot and eligible he imagined himself to be. "She kept coming over to 'try to collect my plate'..." "Because that is her job," I reminded him. "And the way she looked at your mother? Pure jealousy!" Dad slipped his arm around Mom's waist. "Poor thing. I left her a big tip.

I didn’t want to be transported to another world. My favorite books all involved people dealing with hardships. I loved The Grapes of Wrath, Lord of the Flies, and especially A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I thought Francie Nolan and I were practically identical, except that she had lived fifty years earlier in Brooklyn and her mother always kept the house clean. Francie Nolan’s father sure reminded me of Dad. If Francie saw the good in her father, even though most people considered him a shiftless drunk, maybe I wasn’t a complete fool for believing in mine. Or trying to believe in him. It was getting harder. • • •

I pretended not to notice, but Dad looked sort of deflated there on the edge of my bed. A lost, even humbled look was wandering around his face (quite surprised to be there). Seeing him like this, so un-Dad, made me feel sorry for him - though I didn't let on. His befuddled expression reminded me of those unflattering photographs of presidents The New York Times and other newspapers adored sticking on their front page in order to show the world how the Great Leader looked between the staged waves, the scripted sound-bites, the rehearsed handshakes - not staunch and stately, not even steady, but frail and foolish. And though these candid photographs were amusing, when you actually thought about it, the underlying implication of such a photograph was scary, for they hinted how delicate the balance of our lives, how tenuous our calm little existences, if this was the man in charge.

He smelled like fall — not like pumpkin and freshly fallen leaves, but like fall in Florida — salty like the beach air, earthy like the palm trees, with a sweet spiciness that reminded me of the honey whiskey my dad always drank after Thanksgiving dinner.

I reach for her. 'I'm so sorry I had to keep...' My words die on my tongue as she steps back, avoiding me. 'Not happening.' A world of hurt flashes in those hazel eyes, and I fucking wither. 'Just because I believe you and am willing to fight with you doesn't mean I'll trust you with my heart again. and I can't be with someone I don't trust.' Something in my chest crumples. 'I've never lied to you, Violet. Not once. I never will.' She walks over to the window and looks down, then slowly turns back to me. 'It's not even that you kept this from me. I get it. It's the ease with which you did it. The ease with which I let you into my hear and didn't get the same in return.' She shakes her head, and I see it there, the love, but it's masked behind defences I foolishly forced her to build. I love her. Of course I love her. But if I tell her now, she'll think I'm doing it for all the wrong reasons, and honestly, she'd be right. I'm not going to lose the only woman I've ever fallen for without a fight. 'You're right. I kept secrets,' I admit, pressing forward again, taking step after step until I'm less than a foot from her. I palm the glass on both sides of her head, loosely caging her in, but we both know she could walk away if she wanted. But she doesn't move. 'It took me a long time to trust you, a long time to realise I fell for you.' Someone knocks, I ignore it. 'Don't say that.' She lifts her chin, but I don't miss the way she glances at my mouth. 'I fell for you.' I lower my head and look straight into her gorgeous eyes. She might be rightfully pissed, but she sure as Malek isn't fickle. 'And you know what? You might not trust me anymore, but you still love me.' Her lips part, but she doesn't deny it. 'I gave you my trust for free once, and once is all you get.' She masks the hurt with a quick blink. Never again. Those eyes will never reflect hurt I've inflicted ever again. 'I fucked up by not telling you sooner, and I won't even try to justify my reasons. But now I'm trusting you with my life- with everyone's lives.' I've risked it all by just bringing her here instead of taking her body back to Basgiath. 'I'll tell you anything you want to know and everything you don't. I'll spend every single day of my life earning back your trust.' I'd forgotten what it felt like to be loved, really, truly, loved- it'd been so many years since Dad died. And mom... Not going there. But then Violet gave me those words, gave me her trust, her heart, and I remembered. I'll be damned if I don't fight to keep them. 'And if it's not possible?' 'You still love me. It's possible.' Gods, do I ache to kiss her, to remind her exactly what we are together, but I won't, not until she asks. 'I'm not afraid of hard work, especially not when I know just how sweet the rewards are.. I would rather lose this entire war than live without you, and if that means I have to prove myself, over and over, then I'll do it. You gave me your heart, and I'm keeping it.' She already owns mine, even if she doesn't realise it.

But then, he said, "Cute nose." Cute. I have a cute nose. And a cute boyfriend. With cute elk kisses. Also, elk do not sleep standing up. Also, female elk don't have antlers. Also, male elk (bulls) have a harem of cows. Which is maybe why elk popped into my head randomly. Me and Sadie were the cows in Heck's harem. That's weird. But it does explain why I'd randomly think of elks. Elk. Also, though, elk remind me of when we went to Yellowstone—me, Mom, Dad, Mr. Griffin—and saw elk. It was nice. Happy family. And fun. Therefore, elk make me feel happy. And that's probably the real reason for elk randomly popping into my head. Or maybe my mind is a bull with a harem of way too many thought cows! Weirdo.

FYI, car crashes kill way more kids than cancer does. Those crosses you see on the side of the highway, the little white ones hung with fading silk flowers? They’re for people my age. (“People who were texting,” my dad liked to remind me—because he never wanted to blame Budweiser for anything.)

I felt like there should have been rainbows and rose petals in their wake or something. Ugh.That was catty. Jenna deserved rainbows and rose petals, I reminded myself as I flopped back on my bed, Dad's book bumping painfully against my sternum. After everything she'd been through, Jenna had earned an eternity of nothing but good stuff. So why did seeing her with Vix make me want to brain myself with Demonologies: A History? I looked at the nightstand again and sighed. Then I opened the heavy book and tried to make myself read. For the next few hours I made a valiant attempt to get through Chapter One. For a book that was supposedly about fallen angels running around and creating havoc with their super-awesome dark "magycks," it was awfully boring, and all the weird spellings definitely didn't help.

So Dad was cured?” I don’t know why I feel so disappointed. I didn’t even remember him; he died of cancer when I was one. “He was.” A muscle twitches in my mom’s jaw. “But there were times I felt . . . There were times it seemed as though he could still feel it, just for a second. Maybe I only imagined it. It doesn’t matter. I loved him anyway. He was very good to me.” reminds me that she is not just my mother, but a woman who has fought her whole life for something she has never truly experienced. My dad was cured. And you can’t love, not fully, unless you are loved in return. It makes me ache for her, a feeling I hate and am somehow ashamed of.

When my father died... I felt so alone. Then I saw you...and it only made me more sad. When you look out into the abyss that awaits you as you grow older... You're always looking past your father. He's always there, facing it before you and telling you what to expect, preparing you for what's coming. He's a comfort you grow to...take for granted. Then when he's gone, it's just you...facing the abyss alone. See you in the room when he died... It just reminded me that one day you'll feel just as alone and scared as I did in that moment. But for now, you're sleeping...and you're happy... and everything is okay. Right now. In this moment... It almost seems cruel to wake you up.

Keep laser-focused on school, and I'll see YOU at Christmas. Josh leans his lanky body over my shoulder and peers at my laptop. "Is it just me,or is that 'YOU' sort of threatening?" "No.It's not just YOU," I say. "I thought your dad was a writer.What's with the 'laser-focused''gentle reminder' shit?" "My father is fluent in cliche. Obviously, you've never read one of his novels." I pause. "I can't believe he has the nerve to say he'll give Seany my best." Josh shakes his head in disgust. My friends and I are spending the weekend in the lounge because it's raining again. No one ever mentions this, but it turns out Paris is as drizzly as London. According to St. Clair,that is, our only absent member. He went to some photography show at Ellie's school. Actually,he was supposed to be back by now. He's running late.As usual. Mer and Rashmi are curled up on one of the lobby couches,reading our latest English assignment, Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress. I turn back to my father's email. Gentle reminder... your life sucks.

Kevin", his father began, "I've been thinking about it – I guess I was kind of carried away. It's just that I've waited so long for my old school to make it to the Regionals... I suppose I was living it vicariously through you. Keith says you're not going to fail, after all. Is that right?" "Looks like I'll make it. I know it's hard to believe..." "Yes, it is. I was hoping you could get a football scholarship, you know. Something to waive the entrance requirements, because I don't know what college would take you-" "Yeah. Thanks a lot Dad," Kevin said sarcastically. He already knew what his father thought of him and didn't need to be reminded yet again. "Oh, come on. You know perfectly well that you're too stupid to-" "That's not what my boyfriend says. Oh, by the way, Dad – I'm a faggot. Did I mention that?" "... Kevin – get your stuff, and get out." "Gladly.

I stopped looking at the cars after the first few miles. Once I started to see past the exteriors, I saw what lay inside some of them and felt the urge to sprint to the nearest freeway exit. Some people had tried to outrun The Plague by leaving town. They hadn't realized the illness could still find them in their cars, and now the 405 was one of the largest graveyards in the world. I thought for a moment about all of the other cities across the globe that probably had scenes just like this. My eyes stung, wondering if my mother, my dad, or any of my friends were in similar graveyards. I made the mistake of glancing into an overturned Volkswagen Beetle as I passed and saw a pair of legs clad in jeans and white Jack Purcell sneakers in the shadows of the car. They reminded me of Sarah's shoes. The man who laced those up that morning hadn't realized he wouldn't be taking them off again.

My dad, a pretty able woodworker, made me that bed. The smile on that kid’s face, the wood slat, the look in his eyes: that photo reminds me that I won the parent lottery.

She let go of me, kissed the top of my head, and brushed her hands down her apron. ‘I wish your sister was here. It seems wrong to have a celebration without her.’ Not to me it didn’t. Just for once, I was quite enjoying being the focus of attention. It might sound childish, but it was true. I loved having Will and Dad laughing about me. I loved the fact that every element of supper – from roast chicken to chocolate mousse – was my favourite. I liked the fact that I could be who I wanted to be without my sister’s voice reminding me of who I had been.

You’re not gonna believe what just happened to me,” Jase says the minute I flip my cell open, taking advantage of break at the B&T. I turn away from the picture window just in case Mr. Lennox, disregarding the break sign, will come dashing out to slap me with my first-ever demerit. “Try me.” His voice lowers. “You know how I put that lock on the door of my room? Well, Dad noticed it. Apparently. So today, I’m stocking the lawn section and he comes up and asks why it’s there.” “Uh-oh.” I catch the attention of a kid sneaking into the hot tub (there’s a strict no-one-under-sixteen policy) and shake my head sternly. He slinks away. Must be my impressive uniform. “So I say I need privacy sometimes and sometimes you and I are hanging out and we don’t want to be interrupted ten million times.” “Good answer.” “Right. I think this is going to be the end of it. But then he tells me he needs me in the back room to have a ‘talk.’” “Uh-oh again.” Jase starts to laugh. “I follow him back and he sits me down and asks if I’m being responsible. Um. With you.” Moving back into the shade of the bushes, I turn even further away from the possible gaze of Mr. Lennox. “Oh God.” “I say yeah, we’ve got it handled, it’s fine. But, seriously? I can’t believe he’s asking me this. I mean, Samantha. Jesus. My parents? Hard not to know the facts of life and all in this house. So I tell him that we’re moving slowly and—” “You told him that?” God, Jase! How am I ever going to look Mr. Garret in the eye again? Help. “He’s my dad, Samantha. Yeah. Not that I didn’t want to exit the conversation right away, but still . . .” “So what happened then?” “Well, I reminded him they’d covered that really thoroughly in school, not to mention at home, and we weren’t irresponsible people.” I close my eyes, trying to imagine having this conversation with my mother. Inconceivable. No pun intended. “So then . . . he goes on about”—Jase’s voice drops even lower—“um . . . being considerate and um . . . mutual pleasure.” “Oh my god! I would’ve died. What did you say?” I ask, wanting to know even while I’m completely distracted by the thought. Mutual pleasure, huh? What do I know about giving that? What if Shoplifting Lindy had tricks up her sleeve I know nothing about? It’s not like I can ask Mom. “State senator suffers heart attack during conversation with daughter.” “I said ‘Yes sir’ a lot. And he went on and on and on and all I could think was that any minute Tim was gonna come in and hear my dad saying things like, ‘Your mom and I find that . . . blah blah blah.’” I can’t stop laughing. “He didn’t. He did not mention your mother.” “I know!” Jase is laughing too. “I mean . . . you know how close I am to my parents, but . . . Jesus.

So I’ve gotten used to not complaining, and I’ve gotten used to not bothering Mom and Dad with little stuff. I’ve gotten used to figuring things out on my own: how to put toys together, how to organize my life so I don’t miss friends’ birthday parties, how to stay on top of my schoolwork so I never fall behind in class. I’ve never asked for help with my homework. Never needed reminding to finish a project or study for a test. If I was having trouble with a subject in school, I’d go home and study it until I figured it out on my own. I taught myself how to convert fractions into decimal points by going online. I’ve done every school project pretty much by myself. When Mom or Dad ask me how things are going in school, I’ve always said “good”—even when it hasn’t always been so good. My worst day, worst fall, worst headache, worst bruise, worst cramp, worst mean thing anyone could say has always been nothing compared to what August has gone through. This isn’t me being noble, by the way: it’s just the way I know it is.

He looks again towards the door, expecting Mum to walk in and remind him of something he's forgotten. He smiles awkwardly. 'Is that it, Dad? I've got to go.' 'Your Mum said I should mention ... um ... satisfaction.' 'What!' 'She said young men should know things, should be told things so that the girl won't be ...' his eyes plead for understanding, '... disappointed.' [...] 'No worries, Dad. My biology teacher said I was a natural.' Dad looks confused. 'I'm kidding, Dad.' [...] Poor bloke, having to do the dirty work while Mum's off with her gang. 'Dad? What did Grandpa tell you about sex?' 'He said if I got a girl pregnant, he'd kill me.

Yes, with each sandstorm comes the inevitable Cleaning of the Solar Cells, a time-honored tradition among hearty Martians such as myself. It reminds me of growing up in Chicago and having to shovel snow. I'll give my dad credit; he never claimed it was to build character or teach me the value of hard work. "Snowblowers are expensive," he used to say. "You're free." Once, I tried to appeal to my mom. "Don't be such a wuss," she suggested.

I shook my head. “So many noes. No, no, no, no. All day. Doesn’t it make you want to quit?” I asked. My dad replied with something that would change my life: “Love rejections! Collect them like treasure! Set rejection goals. I shoot for a hundred rejections each week, because if you work that hard to get so many noes, my little Noah’le, in them you will find a few yeses, too.” Maybe that’s why he named me NO-ah, to remind me of this daily to keep going. Love rejections?! Set rejection goals?!

They each walked with a limp, because the lifelong journey of grief was setting in. My mom looked at my dad and said, “Remind me what we believe. What do we believe?” After a few moments, my dad responded with these words: “The tomb is empty. The tomb is empty.

Pulling to a stop in front of Aly’s house, I take a deep breath. With a flick of my wrist, I cut the engine and listen to the silence. I’ve sat in this exact spot more times than I can count. In many ways, Aly’s house is like my sanctuary. A place I go when my own home feels like a graveyard. I glance up at the bedroom window of the girl who knows me better than anyone, the only person I let see me cry after Dad died. I won’t let this experiment take that or her away from me. Tonight, I’m going to prove that Aly and I can go back to our normal, easy friendship. Throwing open my door, I trudge up her sidewalk, plant my feet outside her front door, and ring the bell. “Coming!” I step back and see Aly stick her head out of her second-story window. “No problem,” I call back up. “Take your time.” More time to get my head on straight. Aly disappears behind a film of yellow curtain, and I turn to look out at the quiet neighborhood. Up and down the street, the lights blink on, filling the air with a low hum that matches the thrumming of my nerves. Across the street, old Mr. Lawson sits at his usual perch under a gigantic American flag, drinking beer and mumbling to himself. Two little girls ride their bikes around the cul-de-sac, smiling and waving. Just a normal, run-of-the-mill Friday night. Except not. I thrust my hands into my pockets, jiggling the loose change from my Taco Bell run earlier tonight, and grab my pack of Trident. I toss a stick into my mouth and chew furiously. Supposedly, the smell of peppermint can calm your nerves. I grab a second stick and shove it in, too. With the clacking sound of Aly’s shoes approaching the door behind me, I remind myself again about tonight’s mission. All I need is focus. I take another deep breath for good measure and rock back on my heels, ready to greet my best friend. She opens the door, wearing a black dress molded to her skin, and I let the air out in one big huff.

Still, Emma and I somehow struck up the type of friendship that lasts through primary school and high-school cliques, and our fathers are both doctors, although my dad is a GP and Dr Frank is a gynecologist (or, as Emma's two older brothers prefer to call him, a 'box mechanic'). In many ways, I think Emma and I balance each other out - at least, I hope we do. She forces me to be less cynical and bitter. And I'm on hand to remind her that, as long as she has two eyebrows rather than one, she has nothing to worry about. I text her back: 'Call me when you can plait them.' - Cat

Okay, that’s fair,” I said. “But it’s not a contest about whose days suck the most, Auggie. The point is we all have to put up with the bad days. Now, unless you want to be treated like a baby the rest of your life, or like a kid with special needs, you just have to suck it up and go.” He didn’t say anything, but I think that last bit was getting to him. “You don’t have to say a word to those kids,” I continued. “August, actually, it’s so cool that you know what they said, but they don’t know you know what they said, you know?” “What the heck?” “You know what I mean. You don’t have to talk to them ever again, if you don’t want. And they’ll never know why. See? Or you can pretend to be friends with them, but deep down inside you know you’re not.” “Is that how you are with Miranda?” he asked. “No,” I answered quickly, defensively. “I never faked my feelings with Miranda.” “So why are you saying I should?” “I’m not! I’m just saying you shouldn’t let those little jerks get to you, that’s all.” “Like Miranda got to you.” “Why do you keep bringing Miranda up?” I yelled impatiently. “I’m trying to talk to you about your friends. Please keep mine out of it.” “You’re not even friends with her anymore.” “What does that have to do with what we’re talking about?” The way August was looking at me reminded me of a doll’s face. He was just staring at me blankly with his half-closed doll eyes. “She called the other day,” he said finally. “What?” I was stunned. “And you didn’t tell me?” “She wasn’t calling you,” he answered, pulling both comic books out of my hands. “She was calling me. Just to say hi. To see how I was doing. She didn’t even know I was going to a real school now. I can’t believe you hadn’t even told her. She said the two of you don’t hang out as much anymore, but she wanted me to know she’d always love me like a big sister.” Double-stunned. Stung. Flabbergasted. No words formed in my mouth. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I said, finally. “I don’t know.” He shrugged, opening the first comic book again. “Well, I’m telling Mom and Dad about Jack Will if you stop going to school,” I answered. “Tushman will probably call you into school and make Jack and those other kids apologize to you in front of everyone, and everyone will treat you like a kid who should be going to a school for kids with special needs. Is that what you want? Because that’s what’s going to happen. Otherwise, just go back to school and act like nothing happened. Or if you want to confront Jack about it, fine. But either way, if you—

Dear Jessa, I’ve started this letter so many times and I’ve never been able to finish it. So here goes again . . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry that Riley is dead. I’m sorry for ignoring your emails and for not being there for you. I’m sorry I’ve hurt you. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wish it had been me that died and not Riley. If I could go back in time and change everything I would. I’m sorry I left without a word. There’s no excuse for my behaviour but please know that it had nothing to do with you. I was a mess. I haven’t been able to talk to anyone for months. And I felt too guilty and didn’t know how to tell you the truth about what happened. I couldn’t bear the thought of you knowing. I got all your emails but I didn’t read them until last week. I couldn’t face it and I guess that makes me the biggest coward you’ll ever meet. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I never replied. You needed me and I wasn’t there for you. I don’t even know how to ask your forgiveness because I don’t deserve it. I’m just glad you’re doing better. I’m better too. I’ve started seeing a therapist – twice a week – you’d like her. She reminds me of Didi. I never thought I’d be the kind of guy who needed therapy, but they made it a condition of me keeping my job. She’s helped me a lot with getting the panic attacks under control. Working in a room the size of a janitor’s closet helps too – there aren’t too many surprises, only the occasional rogue paperclip. I asked for the posting. I have to thank your dad ironically. The demotion worked out. Kind of funny that I totally get where your father was coming from all those years. Looks like I’ll be spending the remainder of my marine career behind a desk, but I’m OK with that. I don’t know what else to say, Jessa. My therapist says I should just write down whatever comes into my head. So here goes. Here’s what’s in my head . . . I miss you. I love you. Even though I long ago gave up the right to any sort of claim over you, I can’t stop loving you. I won’t ever stop. You’re in my blood. You’re the only thing that got me through this, Jessa. Because even during the bad times, the worst times, the times I’d wake up in a cold sweat, my heart thumping, the times I’d think the only way out was by killing myself and just having it all go away, I’d think of you and it would pull me back out of whatever dark place I’d fallen into. You’re my light, Jessa. My north star. You asked me once to come back to you and I told you I always would. I’m working on it. It might take me a little while, and I know I have no right to ask you to wait for me after everything I’ve done, but I’m going to anyway because the truth is I don’t know how to live without you. I’ve tried and I can’t do it. So please, I’m asking you to wait for me. I’m going to come back to you. I promise. And I’m going to make things right. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll never stop trying for the rest of my life to make things right between us. I love you. Always. Kit

Sophie, have you had any contact with Archer Cross?” Every eye in the room was on me, and I had this bizarre urge to cover my face. I knew everything I was feeling was painted all over it. “No. I thought maybe…” I turned to cal. “Did you see him? When you went in to get Dad at Thorne Abbey?” It’s not like I expected Cal to go, Yes, I did. In fact, I was keeping him in my pocket. Here you go. But when Cal met my eyes and said, “Your dad was alone in the cell when I got there,” the words physically hurt. You’re lucky, I reminded myself. Your dad is here. So is Cal. And Jenna is safe. What were the chances that you’d get everyone back? “The cell door had been broken down,” Cal continued, “so your dad and I figured The Eye took him.” “You don’t remember anything?” I asked Dad. A rueful expression was on his face as he shook his head. “I was unconscious, I’m afraid.” Shoving my hands into my pockets, I said, “I’m sure you’re right. He’s probably with The Eye.” And they were either still keeping him as their pet warlock, or they’d found out about the two of us working together, and killed him. Either way, Archer was gone.

My dad always told me, “Son, you’ll never know love until you have a child. It’s not like the love for a parent, or a spouse, or a sibling.” At the time, I had no frame of reference, so I didn’t get it. Preston reminds me every day of my dad’s wisdom. He was, of course, correct. I probably would have spent my career in New Orleans, practicing and teaching law—if not for one phone call.

Hayden’s soft steps resume beside me, muffled and hollow sounding. “Did your dad…Is he gone?” “Died a few years ago,” I confirm. “My parents were pretty old when they had us, so it wasn’t totally unexpected, but it still sucked. Sucks.” “I’m sorry,” he says. I force a slight smile in his direction. “Thanks.” “I always feel stupid saying that,” he murmurs. “I know,” I agree, “but there’s nothing else to say. And honestly, I would say seventy percent of my friends have pretty horrible relationships with their dads, so even if I didn’t get mine as long as I wish I could have, I still feel lucky.” “You’re not obligated to,” he says quietly. “You can feel cheated, Alice.” I feel a surprising prickle at the back of my nose and a tender ache in my heart. Not just because I’m thinking about my dad, but because what Cillian said wings through my mind again: An unpleasant sort. I could never blame Cillian for having that impression, but it bothers me to think of people out there meeting Hayden Anderson and coming away with this partial view of him. He can be unpleasant. He can also be kind, and even funny. He can be clueless that you are standing right next to him, but he also might notice you being harassed from the other side of the parking lot and intercede on your behalf. “I know I can,” I finally admit. “But I’d rather think of it like this. Like it only hurts this much because he was so great.” And so much reminds me of him that in a way it’s like he’s still here. Especially here, in the Georgian summer, interviewing a woman we’d both always been fascinated by. Hayden nods to himself, but neither of us says anything for a while. We just hike along the path in companionable silence, our arms grazing every several steps, our skin slightly sticky.

Yes, with each sandstorm comes the inevitable Cleaning of the Solar Cells, a time-honored tradition among the hearty Martians such as myself. It reminds me of growing up in Chicago and having to shovel snow. I'll give my dad credit; he never claimed it was to built character or teach me the value of hard work. "Snowblowers are expensive," he used to say. "You're free." Once, I tried to appeal to my mom. "Don't be such a wuss," she suggested.

Peter and I were downstairs alone, the last two people to be picked up. We were sitting on the couch. I kept texting my dad, Where are uuuuuu? Peter was playing a game on his phone. And then, out of nowhere, he said, “Your hair smells like coconuts.” We weren’t even sitting that close. I said, “Really? You can smell it from there?” He scooted closer and took a sniff, nodding. “Yeah, it reminds me of Hawaii or something.” “Thanks!” I said. I wasn’t positive it was a compliment, but it seemed like enough of one to say thanks. “I’ve been switching between this coconut one and my sister’s baby shampoo, to do an experiment on which makes my hair softer--” Then Peter Kavinsky leaned right in and kissed me, and I was stunned. I’d never thought of him any kind of way before that kiss. He was too pretty, too smooth. Not my type of boy at all. But after he kissed me, he was all I could think about for months after.

We don’t live our lives alone, but that doesn’t mean we see those alongside whom we live our lives. When Dad moved to Northern Norway and was no longer physically in front of me with his body and his voice, his temper and his eyes, in a way he disappeared from my life, in the sense that he was reduced to a kind of discomfort I occasionally felt when he called or when something reminded me of him, then a kind of zone within me was activated, and in that zone lay all my feelings for him, but he was not there.

Rayna does not get sick on planes. Also, Rayna does not stop talking on planes. By the time we land at Okaloosa Regional Airport, I’m wondering if I’ve spoken as many words in my entire life as she did on the plane. With no layovers, it was the longest forty-five minutes of my whole freaking existence. I can tell Rachel’s nerves are also fringed. She orders an SUV limo-Rachel never does anything small-to pick us up and insists that Rayna try the complimentary champagne. I’m fairly certain it’s the first alcoholic beverage Rayna’s ever had, and by the time we reach the hotel on the beach, I’m all the way certain. As Rayna snores in the seat across from me, Rachel checks us into the hotel and has our bags taken to our room. “Do you want to head over to the Gulfarium now?” she asks. “Or, uh, rest up a bit and wait for Rayna to wake up?” This is an important decision. Personally, I’m not tired at all and would love to see a liquored-up Rayna negotiate the stairs at the Gulfarium. But I’d feel a certain guilt if she hit her hard head on a wooden rail or something and then we’d have to pay the Gulfarium for the damages her thick skull would surely cause. Plus, I’d have to suffer a reproving look from Dr. Milligan, which might actually hurt my feelings because he reminds me a bit of my dad. So I decide to do the right thing. “Let’s rest for a while and let her snap out of it. I’ll call Dr. Milligan and let him know we’ve checked in.” Two hours later, Sleeping Beast wakes up and we head to see Dr. Milligan. Rayna is particularly grouchy when hungover-can you even get hungover from drinking champagne?-so she’s not terribly inclined to be nice to the security guard who lets us in. She mutters something under her breath-thank God she doesn’t have a real voice-and pushes past him like the spoiled Royalty she is. I’m just about aggravated beyond redemption-until we see Dr. Milligan in a new exhibit of stingrays. He coos and murmurs as if they’re a litter of puppies in the tank begging to play with him. When he notices our arrival he smiles, and it feels like a coconut slushy on a sweltering day and it almost makes up for the crap I’ve been put through these past few days.

I’ve always found comfort in the ritual associated with my Catholicism. I find the rosary soothing. It’s almost like my meditation. And mass is a place I go to be by myself, even in the middle of the crowd. I always feel alone, just me and God. When I pray, I find myself not only praying to God, but praying to Neilia and to my mom to intercede with God for me. It’s a way of reminding myself that they are still a part of me, still inside me. And in the first hours after we lost Beau, I began to talk to him, too. It was my way to remind myself that he was still here with me, too.

When his patients could not afford to pay (for dental services), Dad never denied them. He would discount the cost or set up a payment plan. New York had a lot of talented, starving artists. Most of the artwork in our home Dad traded for crowns and bridges. The barter system worked, just as it had before the money system took over. Now, several of the lovely paintings grace our home in Hawaii. These works of art remind me of my dad’s generosity and his admiration for other people’s gifts. I have passed these lessons of compassion on to my son and eventually will pass on the paintings.

And I felt weird. Really weird, because as I was walking around all the stores, I didn't know what present my dad would like to receive from me. I knew what to buy or give to Sam and Patrick, but I didn't know what I could buy or give or make for my own dad. My brother likes posters of girls and beer cans. My sister likes a haircut gift certificate. My mom likes old movies and plants. My dad only likes golf, and that is not a winter sport except in Florida, and we don't live there. And he doesn't play baseball anymore. He doesn't like to be reminded unless he tells the stories. I just wanted to know what to buy my dad because I love him. And I don't know him. And he doesn't like to talk about things like that.

What will you do if you win the Scorpio Races?” I look into the bucket. “Oh, I’ll buy fourteen dresses and build a road and name it after myself and try one of everything at Palsson’s.” Though I don’t quite look up, I can still feel his gaze on me. It’s a heavy thing, this look of his. He says, “What’s the real answer?” But when I try to think of a real answer, it reminds me of Father Mooneyham saying that Gabe had sat in the confessional and cried, and it makes me think of how, no matter what happens in the races, the best option still has Gabe sailing away in a boat. So I snap, “Do you think I just turn my secrets out for everyone?” He is unfazed. “I didn’t know they were secrets,” he says. “Or I wouldn’t have asked.” It makes me feel ungenerous, since he’d answered so honestly. “I’m sorry,” I say. “My mother always said that I was born out of a bottle of vinegar instead of born from a womb and that she and my father bathed me in sugar for three days to wash it off. I try to behave, but I always go back to the vinegar.” When Dad was in one of his rare, fanciful moods, he told guests that the pixies left me on the doorstep because I bit their fingers too often. My favorite was always when Mum said that before I was born, it rained for seven days and seven nights solid, and when she went out into the yard to ask the sky what it was weeping for, I dropped out of the clouds at her feet and the sun came out. I always liked the idea of being such a bother that I affected even the weather. Sean says, “Don’t apologize. I was being too free.” And now I feel even worse, because that wasn’t what I meant at all.

want to love him but I often find myself wishing he could just be an asshole all the time. This way I wouldn’t have all these inner battles with myself. I learn to navigate my way through shattered expectations and constant disappointments by putting an impenetrable wall up between us. Every time I let my guard down, I’m quickly reminded why my defenses were up in the first place. It’s nearly impossible for me to flourish in an inconsistent hostile environment, especially when my own growth is so intertwined with his. I’m forced to face the unsettling reality that the people who are supposed to protect us are sometimes the same people we need protection from. I slowly begin to scrub away at my femininity, which has proved to be unsustainable in this environment. “Man up! Don’t be a pussy!” my dad shouts at me as I cry. I have to be tougher. I have to be more independent. I have to be resilient. I have to be more like him.

I've gotten used to not complaining, and I've gotten used to not bothering Mom and Dad with little stuff. I've gotten used to figuring things out on my own: how to put toys together, how to organise my life so I don't miss friends' birthday parties, how to stay on top of my schoolwork so I never fall behind in class. I've never asked for help with my homework. Never needed reminding to finish a project or study for a test. If I was having trouble with a subject in school, I'd go home and study it until I figured it out on my own. I taught myself how to convert fractions into decimal points by going online. I've done every school project pretty much by myself. When Mom or Dad ask me how things are going in school, I've always said 'good' - even when it hasn't always been so good. My worst day, worst fall, worst headache, worst bruise, worst cramp, worst mean thing anyone could say has always been nothing compared to what August has gone through. This isn't me being noble, by the way: it's just the way I know it is.

Outside," Regulus replies. "They're making mud-pies, so prepare for the mess." "Mm, nothing we can't handle," James assures him. "We've certainly had worse." "Yes, that's true, but if either of those brats track mud into the kitchen, I'm shipping them off to Sirius and Remus without looking back," Regulus warns, eyes narrowing playfully. James snorts. "You'd miss them and go get them back after three hours, don't even try it." "At least four," Regulus counters, sliding his arms around James' shoulders, eyes sparkling with amusement. "I can entertain myself for four hours, surely." "Oh?" James raises his eyebrows. "Don't you mean I could entertain you for four hours?" Regulus' lips twitch. "No, because I'm shipping you off with them. I've earned the break. I'm done with you Potters." "You're a Potter," James reminds him, amused. "Baby, I'll always be a Black," Regulus tells him, reaching up to card his fingers through James' hair. He leans in and starts mouthing along James' jaw, which James is very pleased about, actually. "No matter my name, that doesn't change." "Dad! Dad, look, we found a frog!" comes the abrupt shriek from outside, along with more delighted screams. "Oh, for fuck's sake," Regulus groans, letting his head thunk down on James' shoulder. "Really, can't we just send them back from whence they came?" "And where is that?" "Hell." James laughs, turning his head to smack a kiss to Regulus' cheek, then down the side of his face, then the scar on the side of his neck. "It's a bit pointless to do that. You'd go through hell just to get them back, and you know it." "Dad, it peed on me!" "Shit, shit, shit," Regulus chants, jolting away from James to rush towards the door. "Put it down, you little demons! Step away from the frog right now!" He's still grumbling as he slips out the door. "Just like your father. Literal spawns of Satan himself. What did I say about staying out of tr…" James sighs softly and leans back against the bar, grabbing his cane again, eyes drifting shut as he listens to the sounds of his family, lips curled up. Then, from his pocket, there's a sudden cry that makes his eyes snap open. Ah, yes, the joys of parenthood. Frogs and squalling infants. James wouldn't change a damn thing.

I fumbled in my pockets for my father’s map. I stared and rubbed the paper between my fingers. I read the sightings’ dot’s dates with my wormed eyes, connecting them in order. There was the first point where my father felt sure he’d seen mother digging in the neighbor’s yard across the street. And the second, in the field of power wires where Dad swore he saw her running at full speed. I connected dots until the first fifteen together formed a nostril. Dots 16 through 34 became an eye. Together the whole map made a perfect picture of my mother’s missing head. If I stared into the face, then, and focused on one clear section and let my brain go loose, I saw my mother’s eyes come open. I saw her mouth begin to move. Her voice echoed deep inside me, clear and brimming, bright, alive. She said, “Don’t worry, son. I’m fat and happy. They have cake here. My hair is clean.” She said, “The earth is slurred and I am sorry.” She said, “You are OK. I have your mind.” Her eyes seemed to swim around me. I felt her fingers in my hair. She whispered things she’d never mentioned. She nuzzled gleamings in my brain. As in: the day I’d drawn her flowers because all the fields were dying. As in: the downed bird we’d cleaned and given a name. Some of our years were wall to wall with wonder, she reminded me. In spite of any absence, we had that. I thought of my father, alone and elsewhere, his head cradled in his hands. I thought of the day he’d punched a hole straight through the kitchen wall, thinking she’d be tucked away inside. All those places he’d looked and never found her. Inside their mattress. In stained-glass windows. How he’d scoured the carpet for her stray hair and strung them all together with a ribbon; how he’d slept with that one lock swathed across his nostrils, hugging a pillow fitted with her nightshirt. How he’d dug up the backyard, stripped and sweating. How he’d played her favorite album on repeat and loud, a lure. How when we took up the carpet in my bedroom to find her, under the carpet there was wood. Under the wood there was cracked concrete. Under the concrete there was dirt. Under the dirt there was a cavity of water. I swam down into the water with my nose clenched and lungs burning in my chest but I could not find the bottom and I couldn’t see a thing.

The same song was playing the second I met my ex–best friend and the moment I realized I’d lost her. I met my best friend at a neighborhood cookout the year we would both turn twelve. It was one of those hot Brooklyn afternoons that always made me feel like I'd stepped out of my life and onto a movie set because the hydrants were open, splashing water all over the hot asphalt. There wasn't a cloud in the flawless blue sky. And pretty black and brown people were everywhere. I was crying. ‘What a Wonderful World’ was playing through a speaker someone had brought with them to the park, and it reminded me too much of my Granny Georgina. I was cupping the last snow globe she’d ever given me in my small, sweaty hands and despite the heat, I couldn’t help imagining myself inside the tiny, perfect, snow-filled world. I was telling myself a story about what it might be like to live in London, a place that was unimaginably far and sitting in the palm of my hands all at once. But it wasn't working. When Gigi had told me stories, they'd felt like miracles. But she was gone and I didn't know if I'd ever be okay again. I heard a small voice behind me, asking if I was okay. I had noticed a girl watching me, but it took her a long time to come over, and even longer to say anything. She asked the question quietly. I had never met anyone who…spoke the way that she did, and I thought that her speech might have been why she waited so long to speak to me. While I expected her to say ‘What’s wrong?’—a question I didn’t want to have to answer—she asked ‘What are you doing?’ instead, and I was glad. “I was kind of a weird kid, so when I answered, I said ‘Spinning stories,’ calling it what Gigi had always called it when I got lost in my own head, but my voice cracked on the phrase and another tear slipped down my cheek. To this day I don’t know why I picked that moment to be so honest. Usually when kids I didn't know came up to me, I clamped my mouth shut like the heavy cover of an old book falling closed. Because time and taught me that kids weren't kind to girls like me: Girls who were dreamy and moony-eyed and a little too nice. Girls who wore rose-tonted glasses. And actual, really thick glasses. Girls who thought the world was beautiful, and who read too many books, and who never saw cruelty coming. But something about this girl felt safe. Something about the way she was smiling as she stuttered out the question helped me know I needn't bother with being shy, because she was being so brave. I thought that maybe kids weren't nice to girls like her either. The cookout was crowded, and none of the other kids were talking to me because, like I said, I was the neighborhood weirdo. I carried around snow globesbecause I was in love with every place I’d never been. I often recited Shakespeare from memory because of my dad, who is a librarian. I lost myself in books because they were friends who never letme down, and I didn’t hide enough of myself the way everyone else did, so people didn’t ‘get’ me. I was lonely a lot. Unless I was with my Gigi. The girl, she asked me if it was making me feel better, spinning the stories. And I shook my head. Before I could say what I was thinking—a line from Hamlet about sorrow coming in battalions that would have surely killed any potential I had of making friends with her. The girl tossed her wavy black hair over her shoulder and grinned. She closed her eyes and said 'Music helps me. And I love this song.' When she started singing, her voice was so unexpected—so bright and clear—that I stopped crying and stared at her. She told me her name and hooked her arm through mine like we’d known each other forever, and when the next song started, she pulled me up and we spun in a slow circle together until we were both dizzy and giggling.

space from her. We gathered our things and waited while the airplane taxied into the gate. As I glanced out the window, my heart picked up speed. It had been two weeks since I’d seen Ethan and it was long overdue. I tried to have a good experience in Paris. After all, it was a once in a lifetime experience that I had literally put everything on the line to go, so I needed to make sure I made the best of it. But I missed Ethan so much. And being with Jordan didn’t help. She was constantly reminding me of how much better America was. The fasten seatbelt light turned off and ten minutes later, I was out of the plane and half-walking/half-running through the gate to get to the luggage carousal. As soon as I burst through the doors, my gaze met Ethan’s. His face lit up as he held a sign that said Welcome Back Livi. I tightened my grip on my carryon and raced over to him where he wrapped his arms around me and spun me around. I giggled as he nuzzled my neck. When he stopped turning, he set me down and pressed his lips against mine. “Welcome back,” he said when he pulled away. I reached up and wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer to me. “I missed you,” I said. He found my lips again, this time, kissing me as if it were the last time we would ever kiss. “All righty, you two,” Dad said.

Are you driving?” I asked Sam. “Nope. I plan to do some drinking,” Sam said. “You’re not old enough,” I reminded him. “Never stopped me before.” “Sam!” He halted and glared at me. “What? You gonna tattle to Mom and Dad?” Was I? No. But he didn’t know that. Besides, as irritating as my brother was, he was good for one thing: blackmail. And it was payback time for the snowball he’d hit me with yesterday. “Not if you make a contribution to the Kate-have-a-good-time fund.” “Ah, Kate, come on. I’m not hurting anyone. I’m a responsible drinker.” “How can you be responsible if you’re breaking the law?” “I don’t drive when I drink. No one gets hurt except me, if I happen to fall flat on my face.” “You get that drunk?” “I’ve got better things to do than discuss my life with you.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “How much?” “Twenty should do it.” “Five.” “Ten.” He held out the bill that had one of my favorite presidents on it. “You know, Kate, no one likes a snitch.” I snatched it from his fingers, folded it up, and shoved it into the front pocket of my jeans. “Payback’s a bitch, Brother.” “What?” “I wouldn’t have tattled. But I didn’t like getting hit with a snowball yesterday, either. So now we’re even.” He snapped his fingers. “Give it back.” “Nope. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.” “You don’t even know what that means.” “And I suppose you do.

Where do the biggest movie star of his generation and a revered director (and great actor in his own right) stay when they are visiting someone? Would you believe the local Holiday Inn? Hoping to forge a better connection to Chris, Clint Eastwood and Bradley Cooper came to see me and the rest of the family in early spring of 2014, before they started filming American Sniper. The unpretentiousness of their visit and their genuine goodwill floored me. It was a great omen for the movie. Bubba and I picked them up at the local airport and brought them home; within minutes Bubba had Bradley out in the back playing soccer. Meanwhile, Clint and I talked inside. He reminded me of my grandfather with his courtly manners and gracious ways. He was very funny, with a quiet, quick wit and dry sense of humor. After dinner--it was an oryx Chris had killed shortly before he died--Bradley took Bubba to the Dairy Queen for dessert. Even in small-town Texas, he couldn’t quite get away without being recognized, and when someone asked for his photo, he stepped aside to pose. Bubba folded his arms across his chest and scanned the area much as his dad would have: on overwatch. I guess I didn’t really understand how unusual the situation was until later, when I dropped them off at the Holiday Inn. I watched them walk into the lobby and disappear. That’s Clint Eastwood and Bradley Cooper! Awesome!

Our city teems with sons who have escaped their fathers in a similar way. Usually, this remains obscure. The Oedipal relation­ship is reduced to a malaise between individuals. The loss of esteem is inevitable, but people get along with one another. Moreover, I am troubled less by my background than by the respect that my old man demands on the basis of his paternity. He cites a credit that is not his due: the fact that fathers, rulers, professors once lived and deserved this name. Nowadays, that is nothing but a rumor. When he swaggers, I sometimes feel like reminding him of the map room and the tricks he harassed my mother with. She shel­tered me from him in her cavern just as Rhea shielded her Zeus against the gluttonous Cronus. Naturally, I avoid making this chess move; I am aware, here too, of imperfection, which torments me. There are truths that we must hush if we are to live together; but you cannot knock over the chessboard. I owe my restraint partly to Bruno, whose course also covers magical and even practical conduct. He said: "If the words are about to flee your lips, then reach toward the left side of your chest for your wallet. You will then save your joke; it will accrue to your capital. You will feel your heart." That is how I act with my dad. At such times, I am even over­come with benevolence. This is also my advice to Vigo when he wants to parry hateful criticism by giving tit for tat.

I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face/ I felt giddy all the way back to the hotel. I giggled. I was happy. Sage leaned back in his seat and studied me, an amused smile on his face. “What?” I asked. He shook his head. “You’re making fun of me,” I said. “I’m not,” Sage assured me. I knew he was telling the truth. His eyes were affectionate. I was his, not just in the past but today and forever, and nothing had ever made me feel more secure. I was about to pull into the hotel when Sage reminded me of the snacks-the whole reason we’d supposedly gone out. I swung a wild U-turn that slammed Sage against his door. “Taking up stunt driving?” he asked. “Can you imagine walking in without the snacks? Rayna would be all over me.” “You don’t think she will be anyway? It’s been a long snack run.” “It hasn’t been that long,” I said. “Has it?” He scrunched his brows. “What are you trying to say?” I giggled again, and we pulled into a gas station market. Sage wrapped his arm around my shoulders and I leaned against his chest as we walked in step into the store; he held my hand as I cruised the tiny aisles; he stood behind me and rubbed my shoulders as we paid. I felt normal. I imagined how things would be after everything was over: after we met the dark lady, after we got the Elixir, after we found my dad. Sage and I could travel the world together: me taking pictures, him painting, always coming back together at the end of the day to share what we’d done and lie in each other’s arms.

They kept in touch for years and years. Momma believed in the goodness of people and she believed in the prayer of protection, that wherever she was, God was, too. Mom had a way of taking people under her wing and making you feel special when you were talking to her. Your story mattered. And whenever she thought I was getting a little too full of myself, she’d remind me: “Robin, your story is no more important than anybody else’s story. When you strut, you stumble.” Meaning: When you think that you’re all that and a bag of chips, you’re gonna fall flat on your face. Thank you, Momma, for that invaluable lesson. We were overwhelmed with the outpouring of love for our mother. President and Michelle Obama sent a beautiful flower arrangement to our house. It was the first time I had seen Mom’s grandchildren smile in days. It was a proud moment for them. The president of the United States. They asked if they could take pictures of the flowers and Instagram them to their friends. It was painful to make the final arrangements for Mom. The owners of the Bradford-O’Keefe Funeral Home were incredibly kind and gentle. Our families have known each other for decades, and they also handled my father’s homegoing service. Mom had always said she wanted to be laid to rest in a simple pine box. We were discussing what to put on her tombstone. I had been quiet up to that point, just numb. Mom and Dad were both gone. I was left with such an empty feeling. Grandma Sally had passed when Mom was in her seventies, and I remember Mom saying she now felt like an orphan. I thought that was strange. But now I knew exactly what Mom meant. There was a lot of chatter about what words to use on Mom’s tombstone. I whispered it should simply read: A CHILD OF GOD. Everyone agreed.

If I'd known you were available, Dee, and looking for work,I'd've hired you." Burke Logan, settled back in his chair and winked at his wife's cousin. "We like to keep the best on at Royal Meadows." Adelia twinkled at him across the table in the track's dining room. He was as handsome and as dangerous to look at as he'd been nearly twenty years before when she'd first met him. "Oh,I don't know." Bruke trailed a hand over his wife's shoudler. "We have the best bookkeeper around at Three Acres." "In that case,I want a raise." Erin picked up her wine and sent Burke a challenging look. "A big one. Trevor?" Her voice was smooth, shimmering with Ireland as she addressed her son. "Do you have in mind to eat that pork chop or just use it for decoration?" "I'm reading the Racing Form, Ma." "His father's son," Erin muttered and snagged the paper from him. "Eat your dinner." He heaved a sigh as only a twelve-year-old boy could. "I think Topeka in the third, with Lonesome in the fifth and Hennessy in the sixth for the trifecta. Dad says Topeka's generous and a cinch tip." At his wife's long stare, Burke cleared his throat. "Stuff that pork chop in your mouth, Trev.Where's Jean?" "She's fussing with her hair," Mo announced, and snatched a french fry from Travis's plate. "As usual," she added with the worldly air only an older sister could achieve, "the minute she turned fourteen she decided her hair was the bane of her existence. Huh. Like having long, thick, straight-as-a-pin black hair is a problem. This-" she tugged on one of the hundreds of wild red curls that spiraled acround her face. "-is a problem. If you're going to worry about something as stupid as hair, which I don't.Anyway, you guys have to come over and see this weanling I have my eye on.He's going to be amazing.And if Dad lets me train him..." She trailed off, slanting a look at her father across the table. "You'll be in college this time next year," Burke reminded her. "Not if I can help it," Mo said under her breath.

You look beautiful,” my dad said as he walked over to me and offered his arm. His voice was quiet--even quieter than his normal quiet--and it broke, trailed off, died. I took his arm, and together we walked forward, toward the large wooden doors that led to the beautiful sanctuary where I’d been baptized as a young child just after our family joined the Episcopal church. Where I’d been confirmed by the bishop at the age of twelve. I’d worn a Black Watch plaid Gunne Sax dress that day. It had delicate ribbon trim and a lace-up tie in the back--a corset-style tie, which, I realized, foreshadowed the style of my wedding gown. I looked through the windows and down the aisle and could see myself kneeling there, the bishop’s wrinkled, weathered hands on my auburn hair. I shivered with emotion, feeling the sting in my nose…and the warm beginnings of nostalgia-driven tears. Biting my bottom lip, I stepped forward with my father. Connell had started walking down the aisle as the organist began playing “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” I could close my eyes and hear the same music playing on the eight-track tape player in my mom’s Oldsmobile station wagon. Was it the London Symphony Orchestra or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir? I suddenly couldn’t remember. But that’s why I’d chosen it for the processional--not because it appeared on Modern Bride’s list of acceptable wedding processionals, but because it reminded me of childhood…of Bach…of home. I watched as Becky followed Connell, and then my sister, Betsy, her almost jet-black hair shining in the beautiful light of the church. I was so glad to have a sister. Ms. Altar Guild gently coaxed my father and me toward the door. “It’s time,” she whispered. My stomach fell. What was happening? Where was I? Who was I? At that very moment, my worlds were colliding--the old world with the new, the past life with the future. I felt my dad inhale deeply, and I followed his lead. He was nervous; I could feel it. I was nervous, too. As we took our place in the doorway, I squeezed his arm and whispered, “I love thee.” It was our little line. “I love thee, too,” he whispered back. And as I turned my head toward the front of the church, my eyes went straight to him--to Marlboro Man, who was standing dead ahead, looking straight at me.

I was a country kid who went to a public school, and she was more of a middle-class girl who attended a private school. I was into hunting and fishing, and she liked drama and singing in the choir at school and church. Our lives up until that point were totally different. But Missy and I had a very deep spiritual connection, and I thought our mutual love for the Lord might be our biggest strength in sustaining our relationship. Even though Missy was so different from me, I found her world to be very interesting. Looking back, perhaps another reason I decided to give our relationship a chance was because of my aunt Jan’s bizarre premonition about Missy years earlier. My dad’s sister Jan had helped bring him to the Lord, and she taught the fourth grade at OCS. One of her students was Missy, and they went to church together at White’s Ferry Road Church. When I was a kid we attended a small church in the country, but occasionally we visited White’s Ferry with my aunt Jan and her husband. One Sunday, Missy walked by us as we were waiting in the pew. “Let me tell you something,” Jan told me as she pointed at me and then Missy. “That’s the girl you’re going to marry.” Missy was nine years old. To say that was one of the dumbest things I’d ever heard would be an understatement. I love my aunt Jan, but she has a lot in common with her brother Si. They talk a lot, are very animated, and even seem crazy at times. However, they love the Lord and have great hearts. I actually never thought about it again until she reminded me of that day once Missy and I started getting serious. Freaky? A bit. Bizarre? Definitely! Was she right? Absolutely, good call! Missy still isn’t sure what my aunt Jan saw in her. Missy: What did Jan see in me at nine years old? Well, you’ll have to ask her about that. She was the only teacher in my academic history from whom I ever received a smack. She announced a rule to the class one day that no one could touch anyone else’s possessions at any time (due to a recent rash of kids messing with other people’s stuff). The next day, I moved some papers around on one of my classmates’ desks before school, and he tattled on me. Because of her newly pronounced rule, she took me to the girls’ bathroom and gave me a whack on the rear. At the time, I certainly would have never thought she had picked me out to marry her nephew!

This got me thinking that perhaps the granularity of attention we achieve outward also extends inward, so that as the perceptual details of our environment unfold in surprising ways, so too do our own intricacies and contradictions. My dad said that leaving the confined context of a job made him understand himself not in relation to that world, but just to the world, and forever after that, things that happened at work only seemed like one small part of something much larger. It reminds me of how John Muir described himself not as a naturalist but as a “poetico-trampo-geologist-botanist and ornithologist-naturalist etc. etc.,” or of how Pauline Oliveros described herself in 1974: Pauline Oliveros is a two legged human being, female, lesbian, musician, and composer among other things which contribute to her identity. She is herself and lives with her partner…along with assorted poultry, dogs, cats, rabbits and tropical hermit crabs.10 Of course, there’s an obvious critique of all of this, and that’s that it comes from a place of privilege. I can go to the Rose Garden, stare into trees, and sit on hills all the time because I have a teaching job that only requires me to be on campus two days a week, not to mention a whole set of other privileges.

I looked around to make sure I wasn't leaving anything behind, closed the door behind me, and collapsed sobbing, on the little cement landing, gripping, the cold metal railing to keep from falling over completely. Thinking back on it now, it reminds me of labor. There was a point during my son's birth when my contractions changed very suddenly from gripping to pushing. I was not in control; my body and the wisdom it held from thousands of years of evolution took over. My body did the same with my grief. It seized my bones and muscles and pushed it out. There in the rain outside my dad's home, I bawled and shook wildly for a few moments.

He kept telling James and me how proud he was of us. I reminded Dad how he had spotted the advert in the newspaper that kick-started my little journey. I made sure he knew that without his encouragement I would probably never have made anything of my life. I knew and I know he always loved me.

Why had mom shut me out since the horse farm? Why had she abandoned me, tradition-less, in pursuit of her gift? Was there not space for two on her path? Was my Spanish too shaky for any practical conversation with babalaos? Was I too white for the Afro-Caribbean river to roar in me? Was I too constant a reminder of my dad, who had disavowed spirits and scorned religion? God

Now, in her passing, I can look at Zoey, at the healthy and strong little girl she is and say the woman who gave birth to me had a hand in making her this way. I can remind Zoey of the woman who tucked her in at night when her dad and I couldn’t.

When I bring my dad back home, Nero’s there again, to help get him up the stairs and into his bed. He isn’t just kind to me, he’s kind to my father. Gentle with him. Respectful. Reminding him of a time a few years back when my dad found a bumper for an old Corvette that Nero couldn’t get anywhere else.

At sea, I was the captain. I was important, and I had a role. I ran the show. At home, I was the swab. I did the shit work, almost always unappreciated. I loved my family, but man did I hate being on land all the time. I tried my best, I honestly did. I really stepped up my game around the house to be the best dad and partner I could be. It just was never good enough. With no offshore fishing and encouragement at home, part of me was dead inside, the part that made me who I am. I missed my boat daily. Flashbacks were a constant. I daydreamed of foaming schools of tuna while washing bubbly dishes. I saw mahi mahi boldly charging baits as I folded brightly colored laundry. When I went jogging and my heart started pumping, I saw huge marlin going wild on the gaffs. Everything reminded me of the boat. I most likely honestly had post-traumatic stress from the whole ordeal

Not that I didn’t want to fully Hulk out at least ten times a day; I was a woman and a lawyer and I was on Twitter, I felt like flipping tables daily, but whenever those hot flashes sparked into life, I always tried to remind myself of something my dad told me when I started my training at Abbott & Howe: no one likes an angry woman. It was sexist, offensive and at least in my office, one hundred per cent true. For years, I’d done my level best to be professional, hardworking, calm and likeable, but now my rage felt like a can of Pringles, I had been popped and I could not stop.

I sometimes told people my dad reminded me of Robin Williams, and they would assume I meant the drive to entertain, the old showbiz patter. But it was really that ever-present Pig-Pen cloud of kind-eyed sadness.

[...] That our love was meant to transcend time. But I reminded you that it did. That no matter what happened to me, our love with still be alive. In our children. In their children. In the letters I wrote and in the roots of the home we grew together. My love for you wasn’t going to fade because my life was. It would only grow stronger and will continue to live on forever.

He’s old enough to be our dad,” Svetlana whispers in my ear, reminding me of what I already know. “Yeah, but he isn’t,” I whisper back.

It was Am who held up his hand in a stopping motion and said, “Jackie, don’t freak out—” And that’s when she stopped walking, the smile she’d had on her face dropping like a damn fly as her gaze landed on the person sitting next to me. She fell over like a fucking tree. So hard it was a miracle her skull didn’t smack against the concrete foundation as she passed out. “Told you,” Am muttered as we all rushed over, crouching beside her just as her eyes shot open and she screeched. “I’m fine! I’m fine!” “Are you all right?” Yuki asked, kneeling beside her. Jackie’s eyes went wide again, and her face went just as pale as Amos’s had earlier when I’d told him that we were going to recruit Yuki into helping today. “Oh my God, it’s you!” she shouted with another gasp. “Hi.” Hi. I almost burst out laughing. “Jackie, are you okay?” Jackie’s eyes filled with tears, and I realized Amos and I were invisible now. “Oh my God, it’s you.” My friend didn’t even hesitate; she scooted forward on her knees. “Would you like a hug?” Jackie’s eyes were full of tears as she nodded frantically. “I didn’t look like that, did I?” Amos whispered at my side as the woman and the teenager hugged and even more tears spilled out of Jackie’s eyes. She was sobbing. Jackie was flat-out sobbing. “Almost.” I met his eyes and grinned. He gave me a flat look that reminded me way too much of his dad. I laughed.

Well, that’s one problem I’ll never have. I’m the first-born, the chosen one. My mother is the only woman Dad ever loved, his tsarina. I remind him of her. He looks out for me – that’s why I’ve got Vadim. To keep me safe.

I’ve told you about this. It was fucking hot. Not just a little bit. Not uncomfortable-hot, but kill-you-hot.” “You’ve told me, but I like how you get so defensive every time you talk about it. It’s sexy when men have a weakness.” “And women have to save me from it?” “It’s what we’ve been doing since the beginning of time, my invincible star warrior.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, encouraging him to smile. “I was raised to believe that men were the providers and could never show vulnerabilities. We have to be the pillar of strength, the bedrock on which the family is built,” he tried to explain. “But if you know that isn’t true, why do you persist?” “It’s not an easy habit to break,” he admitted. “I’m trying. Give me that much, and as long as you and Rivka keep reminding me, we’ll get to where it will be second nature. And then if we ever have kids, we’ll raise them differently. Mom and Dad, out there side by side blasting the ever-living shit out of bad guys.” Lindy chuckled. “Nice image.” She met Red’s eyes and looked deeply into them. “Weren’t you the one who said the men had the women outnumbered on Peacekeeper? You, Chaz, Hamlet, Ankh, and Erasmus. Something like that. Five to three. ‘We are manly men!’” Red liked the way Lindy’s eyes sparkled when she was giving him a hard time. She was making a valid point, though. He had said those very words. “Hamlet is the manliest of us all. That cat doesn’t give a shit.” “And what’s this bit about kids? I’m not even sure I’ll let you be my boyfriend.” He brushed the hair from beside her eye and tucked it behind her ear. With the tip of his finger, he slowly and lightly traced the outside of Lindy’s ear.

The silver lining is that people have stopped busting my chops. I confronted Dad about the phone calls, and I check in every day, and he says they’ve stopped. I have no idea if he’s blowing smoke up my ass or not, but he seems more chill. Then there’s the added bonus that having Cash around drives Toby nuts. The downside is that Toby’s decided to turn up the PDA with his new girl, Samantha, to twelve. And I don’t care. I really, really don’t. I don’t want him back. I don’t miss feeling the way I felt with him—at all. But I know he’s doing it to mess with me, even though he’d never admit it, probably not even to himself. I have to act like it’s fine. I’m chill. And that’s too much like how it was being in a relationship with him. Playing it cool reminds me of how long I had shit in my mouth and didn’t say a word. So I’m constantly flustered, clumsy, hot, and cranky. I can’t possibly seem like a woman with a new boyfriend, but people buy it ‘cause Cash Wall says it’s so. And of course, if he showed the slightest bit of interest in me—out of guilt or pity or whatever—I’d fall over myself saying yes, please, sign me up. And that’s exactly what it looks like I did. It sucks, and tonight, Cash wants to take it to the next level. It’s Friday, and he’s taking me out on our first fake date. We’re going to Birdy’s Bar. Everyone under thirty goes to Birdy’s on Friday night. I’ve never been. I’m getting ready. On the one hand, I don’t want Cash to think I’m putting forth an effort. On the other, I don’t want everyone in town to gawk at me all night, thinking I really need to put forth more effort. So, I’m wearing a teal, silk cami and my best-fitting jeans. I swapped my nose ring out for a diamond stud and curled my hair in big, beachy waves. I’m going the whole nine yards with primer and foundation and concealer and bronzer and blush and highlighter and powder and setting spray. Toby would hate it. Goes against his oft-stated “natural beauty” preference. It’s been so long since I’ve done my face in

As I walk Sienna to her car, she squeals. “Holy crap, is that Rider Kingston?” Without my permission, my gaze slides across the street to the oversized man-child, who has the gall to be moving furniture shirtless while flexing his stupid abs. Judging by the other sweaty minions pouring out of the two-story, Rider’s getting new roommates too. My eye twitches again, and my focus snaps back to Sienna. “I thought you said you weren’t a fan of football.” “Oh, I’m not. I can’t sit through an entire game. But I am a fan of football players.” Her gaze turns ravenous as she scans my neighbor’s front lawn. Or, likely, the glistening eight-pack Rider’s put on display. “All that testosterone. Those bulging muscles. That deep, masculine grunting. Oh, yeah. Get me one of those!” She cackles, and Rider hears it. Of course he does. Shockingly, he deigns to speak to me. “Hey, Gabby,” he shouts. “How was your summer?” I’m not sure when he decided to stop ignoring me, but that’s better than pretending we’re friends, which we’ll never be. I close my eyes because I don’t need any reminders of his masculine beauty. And I definitely don’t need to see that sexy smirk, the one more powerful than his cannon that took the team to the playoffs last year. No, I’m not interested in the star quarterback. Not anymore.

As my dad and I entered the tenth local shop that afternoon, I felt my muscles go tight with a full body cringe. He’d just asked to speak to the manager in an Israeli accent as thick as hummus. Sounding identical to Arnold Schwarzenegger. “I don’t get it.” His voice boomed enthusiastically after he was introduced to the store’s boss. “You live in greatest country in world, and you have greatest business in sector, but you still have a crappy copier. Why? I must help you. Here, I gave much better, let me show!” His pitch would be met with a rejection. And then another rejection. Countless rejections. Rinse and repeat. Every. Damn. Day. But then, invariably, inevitably, a hard-won success. This particular day was glorious, though. Absolutely glorious. He sold two copiers in one day! So Dad said let’s go celebrate and grab some burritos! “Why you look so sad, Noah?” he said as we sat down to eat. Although I should have been riding on the adrenaline of my dad’s glorious day, something felt wrong. Despite his ultimate success, the process of getting there felt demoralizing and pointless. I shook my head. “So many noes. No, no, no, no. All day. Doesn’t it make you want to quit?” I asked. My dad replied with something that would change my life: “Love rejections! Collect them like treasure! Set rejection goals. I shoot for a hundred rejections each week, because if you work that hard to get so many noes, my little Noah’le, in them you will find a few yeses, too.” Maybe that’s why he named me NO-ah, to remind me of this daily to keep going. Love rejections?! Set rejection goals?! My dad reframed rejection as something desirable—so you feel good when you get it. He was saying aim for rejection! It was suddenly clear to me why my dad was never afraid to ask anyone anything—and why he pushed for a hundred rejections a week: the upside of asking is unlimited and the downside is minimal. And he was right! “What’s the worst that can happen?” he’d say whenever I cringed at someone turning him down. “So they said no. Who cares! And the upside of making sales is unlimited.

I didn’t have to worry about anymore. My dad wasn’t screaming at me. I didn’t have to take care of my mom or help my little brother with his homework. It was so good to just be me, to be selfish, to only worry about myself. To be normal. But once Friday came around, I was reminded how not normal I was. While everyone started on their weekend plans, I boarded a bus for the ninety-minute ride back to San Antonio to sell funnel cakes. I was instantly reminded of how much my mom, my brother, and my father were giving up just so that I could go to college. How could I not feel like I owed them everything?

Ah. Our lovely neighbor.” He coughs dramatically. “That’s Ben’s sister. In case you need a reminder. Bro code and all.” “I’m not making a move on Gabby.” I’ll never make a move on her. Just being near her makes me want to toss her over my shoulder and carry her back to my place caveman-style. That’s reason enough to avoid her like the plague. My reaction to her has always been too strong, and I don’t need to test my control when I have too much on the line this year. I can face three-hundred-pound linemen and not bat an eye, but something about this woman makes me want to run before I do anything stupid. It’s baffling.

Her eyes meet mine. “What exactly do you want, Rider?” My throat feels tight. I take a breath. For some crazy reason, I feel like I’m trying to throw for a touchdown. “Just… I need us to be friends again. I miss you, Gabby, and I regret how I treated you. And with everything with Poppy, I’m being reminded of how amazing you are.” I shrug. “I miss our friendship. Don’t you?” My heart feels like it’s gonna beat out of my chest with that confession. “And that’s all you want?” she asks warily. “Friendship?” Yes. No. Fuck, I don’t know. “That’s all I have time for right now.” Do I miss our friendship? Absolutely. Do I want to fuck her until I can’t walk anymore? Definitely. Can I handle anything beyond sex right now while I juggle all the other shit in my life? Probably not. So yeah, I guess I’d better keep my damn hands to myself. “And you’re not going to ghost me again?” she asks. The vulnerability in her voice kills me, and I reach for her hand again. “Because it sucked to open up to you about being in foster care only for you to disappear on me.” I close my eyes. Christ. No wonder she thinks I’m a douchebag. “I promise I won’t disappear again. You’re officially stuck with me now.

Is Charlie in her room?” I ask Buffy, who looks down the hall warily and nods. Why is everyone being so damn weird today? Which reminds me of how strangely Billy acted this afternoon. Did he know what happened to Charlotte and didn’t bother to tell me? When I get to her room, I’m confused why all of her clothes are on her bed. “Babe, are you okay?” She freezes before she slowly turns to face me. She has a bandage on her forehead and her swollen eyes are black and blue. Oh, shit. “Are you okay? I just missed you at the hospital. Come here.” I open my arms to her, but she shakes her head. Her eyes tear up and she tries to wipe them. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, her voice shaking. I drop my arms. “Tell you what?” The heartbroken expression on her face tears me up. “Why didn’t you tell me Coach Santos didn’t want us together? That he wanted us to cool things off for the rest of the season?

In my memories, I could see Dad sitting on the steps of the house, smoking a stinking cigar as he watched the storm roll in, a beer in one hand and a smile on his face, Mom leaning her head against his shoulder, a glass of merlot in her hand, her eyes closed as she listened to the rumble of thunder. “There’s nothing like the sound of the sky rattling your bones, you know?” he once told me when I asked why he loved thunderstorms so much. “Makes you feel alive. Reminds you that there’s more to you than just skin and blood, but bones underneath. Stronger stuff. Just listen to that sky sing, buttercup.

Ivy died when we were six. Our family was devastated. Dad consumed himself with work, Mom spent half her days on sleeping pills, and neither of them could look at me for ages without bursting into tears and rushing away. My face was a constant reminder of what we’d lost. We couldn’t escape it. I couldn’t escape it.

Are you going to frisk me?" he asked when I stepped in close to measure the width of his shoulders. He smelled of pine and leather and the fresh ocean breeze--- wild and free. "This is a custom tailor shop, not a police station." "I might have a dangerous weapon in my pocket," he teased. I pulled the measuring tape tight under his arms, reminding myself that I was a professional. I was totally unaffected by the rock-hard pecs that flexed under my hands or the fact that I was now so close, I could feel the heat of his body. It was disconcertingly intimate. I'd measured many clients over the years for my dad and not once had I ever felt like I needed an immediate date with my vibrator.

When I failed to learn how to ride a bike at the “correct” age because I had poor balance and motor control, my dad shamed me for my immature clumsiness (perhaps because it reminded him of his own masked motor disability).

Face the facts. Your life is too perfect. You probably lie awake at night, fantasizing about spicin’ up all that lily whiteness you live in.” But damn it, I get a whiff of vanilla from her perfume or lotion. It reminds me of cookies. I love cookies, so this is not good at all. “Gettin’ near the fire, chica, doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll get burned.” “You touch her and you’ll regret it, Fuentes,” Colin’s voice rings out. He resembles a burro, with his big white teeth and ears sticking out from his buzz cut. “Get the hell away from her.” “Colin,” Brittany says. “It’s okay. I can handle this.” Burro Face brought reinforcements: three other pasty white dudes, standing behind him for backup. I size up Burro Face and his friends to see if I can take them all on, and decide I could give all four a run for their money. “When you’re strong enough to play in the big leagues, jock boy, then I’ll listen to the mierda flyin’ out of your mouth,” I say. Other students are gathering around us, leaving room for a fight that is sure to be fast, furious, and bloody. Little do they know Burro Face is a runner. This time he’s got backup, though, so maybe he’ll stay to duke it out. I’m always prepared for a fight, been in more of ‘em than I can count on my fingers and toes. I’ve got the scars to prove it. “Colin, he’s not worth it,” Brittany says. Thanks, mamacita. Right back at ya. “You threatening me, Fuentes?” Colin barks, ignoring his girlfriend. “No, asshole,” I say, staring him down. “Little dicks like you make threats.” Brittany parks her body in front of Colin and puts her hand on his chest. “Don’t listen to him,” she says. “I’m not afraid of you. My dad’s a lawyer,” Colin brags, then puts his arm around Brittany. “She’s mine. Don’t ever forget that.” “Then keep a leash on her,” I advise. “Or she might be tempted to find a new owner.” My friend Paco comes up beside me. “Andas bien, Alex?” “Yeah, Paco,” I tell him, then watch as two teachers walk down the hall escorted by a guy in a police uniform. This is what Adams wants, perfectly planned to get my ass kicked out of school. I’m not falling into his trap only to end up on Aguirre’s hit list. “Si, everything’s bien.” I turn to Brittany. “Catch ya later, mamacita. I’m looking forward to researching our chemistry.” Before I leave and save myself from suspension on top of my detention, Brittany sticks that perky nose of hers in the air as if I’m the scum of the earth.

He was tough as hell, and he’d always reminded me of my dad. Then one day, he was just gone, no warning. And I realized you can’t take people for granted. Life’s too short.” She

We’re from far West Texas.” I let that linger for a moment before turning and shooting him a grin. “Otherwise known as California.” “Smart-ass.” He smiled wide and I forced my eyes back on the road. Oh Lord, that smile was perfect. “Let me guess. College?” “Yep.” “Isn’t it summer? Wouldn’t you want to go home during vacation?” “Uh, yeah. It is . . . but Candice has a cheer camp for elementary-school girls she’s working at this summer. And where Candice goes, I go.” He huffed softly and looked back at Candice and Mason. “Cheerleader. Yeah, I’d already kinda pegged her as one; she looks like it.” At barely over five feet, with bleached blond hair, bright green eyes, and an ever-present smile and bounce in her step, yeah, she definitely looked like it. “So you’re a cheerleader too?” “Ha! Um, no. Definitely not.” Candice usually had to drag me to games and was always getting on me about my lack of enthusiasm for sports. Not my fault they reminded me of my dad. I would always sit on the couch with him while he watched whatever games were playing. He’d taught me everything there was to know about each sport, and watching them now, I could still hear him calling out fouls, flags, and strikes before the refs or umps did it themselves. “So . . .” Kash drew out the word and turned his body so his back was against the door and he was facing me. “So, what?” “You’re not a cheerleader; what are you?” For such an innocent question, it hit me deep. I felt like I was walking around lost half the time, and the other half I was just following Candice to be near someone I considered family so I wouldn’t break down. I’d only majored in athletic training because it was close to Candice’s major. I didn’t want to do anything with it when I graduated—to be honest, I had no idea what I wanted to do when I graduated. I didn’t know who I was, let alone who, and what, I wanted to be. “I’m just Rachel,” I finally answered, and flickered a glance toward Kash to see his brow furrow as he studied me. We

First, they smile in your face, then they tell you how good your resume looks, then they tell you that they can’t hire you, and then tell you that they wish you the best. How the hell can you wish me the best when you wouldn’t give me the job? How can you tell me how good my resume looks, but then won’t hire me? Don’t tell me how good my resume is, then tell me that you can’t hire me. I know my credit is bad... I know that I have student loans out the ass. I know that. Don’t remind me. That don’t mean I’m going to steal from your bank. I have much more class than that. My dad raised me better than that. I don’t steal and I hate people who do.

It reminded me of my dad’s favorite quote from Oscar Wilde. Everything in the world is about sex but sex. Sex is about power.

But the truth was--though I wouldn't realize this until later--I had felt summoned: by my aunt and her prayers; by the lake in which my grandmother had bobbed in pain; by my dad's conscience, or lack thereof, and his hills; by the wind; by a neighbor boy who would tell me only the second time I ever talked to him that the color of my eyes (a drab gray, I'd always thought) reminded him of the sky up north on the reservation, right before nightfall, when Sasquatch warned hunters to get out of the woods and coyotes roamed along the roads and fences white men built over ancient paths.

closet serial-killer.” “No way! He’s a total sweetheart. You’re going to love him. In addition to being Grayson’s best man, he’s also so sexy...” “No,” I say firmly. “Carmen, do you hear me? I swear to God. If you set me up with someone, I’m not coming. I am not in the mood for this garbage.” “But... Helen. You have to come. I told Daddy that you were coming, and he already bought your favorite red velvet cupcakes.” Carmen sighs. “I didn’t want to tell you this, but Dad hasn’t been doing so well lately. He had a minor heart attack...” “A heart attack?” I repeat dumbly. Remembering my mother’s death, my entire body is seized by a panic. “Is he... is he okay?” “Sure. He’s fine, but he’ll be better if you get your cute butt down here!” I shove my forehead into the upholstery of the backseat. “Carm, are you lying to manipulate me?” “No way, honey. I’m just reminding you of your responsibility to your family,” Carmen says innocently. “And part of that responsibility is to date Brad!” I gnash my teeth together angrily. An idea suddenly strikes me. It’s horrible, but it just might work. I glance toward the front seats where the two doctors are sitting, and I bite my lip as a smile begins to transform my features. “No,” Liam whispers. “Whatever you’re planning, don’t do it!” I have to ignore him for the sake of self-preservation.

Sweet as, eh.” “Do you mean where you wrap your wrists?” Hannah wondered. “Do you write things on there, then?” “Most of the boys do. Especially the ones with families,” Hemi explained. “Got the names of their partners, their kids on there. Reminds them who they’re playing for.” “You play for your kids and your wife?” Hannah asked. “What does that mean, exactly?” “Hannah’s dad died when she was young,” Drew told Hemi. “These sorts of things are a bit of a mystery to her.” “My wife and my kids give me the incentive to go out and play well. They’re my inspiration,” Hemi said, taking Reka’s hand. “Not sure it works that way with women.” “I’ve been working for a long time,” Hannah mused. “But even though I had some responsibility for my brother and sister,” she said, ignoring Drew’s snort at her description, “I never thought of myself as working for them. It was separate. If anything, I have to admit, it felt more like a conflict. Almost a burden, trying to think about them and also about everything else I had to do. Trying to juggle everything. It doesn’t feel that way for you? Like a...an extra weight? The responsibility?” Hemi shook his head firmly. “Maybe men need something beyond themselves to remind us that it’s not all about us. Reckon we’re more selfish. We need somebody to work for. In my case, somebody to play for. When we’re busting a gut, trying to grind out a win, and I’m feeling ready to chuck it in, I look down at my kids’ names, at Reka’s name. And it reminds me, this is why I’m doing this. Gives me strength.” “Wow,” Hannah said quietly. “I never knew that.

My dad started drinking, got angrier, and took it out on me, even worse than before. I no longer had my mom to protect me, which he reminded me of repeatedly. It started getting physical, with a few shoves and smacks to my head, but I just took it. I still take it.

Christ is…in all. —Colossians 3:11 (KJV) We were whizzing down the interstate when I noticed a man trudging down the side of the road. Oh my, I thought, poor thing. He must have lost his mind. He could be dangerous. Abby, our granddaughter, had a far different response. “Big Dad,” she yelled to my husband, “did you see that? I think we just passed Jesus!” Well, maybe. The man was wearing a white robe and had a beard, and he did have a big wooden cross hoisted over his shoulder and was dragging it. “Probably it’s a person on a mission,” I said to Abby. “Since Easter’s next week, maybe he’s traveling to a certain spot or trying to remind people that Easter’s coming.” “I think it was Jesus,” she answered. “Let’s go back and see.” David looked wary; I felt perplexed. What could we do but circle back? We retraced our route, but the man was nowhere to be seen. “Oh well,” Abby said, “someone must have given him a ride. That cross looked really heavy.” Already, she was settling back into the book she’d been reading. I, on the other hand, was in the front seat, struggling with my response to the “freeway Jesus.” How easily I had dismissed him as a crazy person to avoid dealing with him. I’d even noted that his beard was unkempt…Jesus would never look scraggly! I was beginning to see a truth in myself I didn’t like. Didn’t Jesus say that when we do something for the lowliest person, we are doing the same for Him? How many times had I found excuses to avoid reaching out to those Jesus talked about, labeling them crazy, dangerous, scraggly? Abby was right; that cross did look heavy. But if that man on the side of the road—and everyone else I chanced to meet—was Jesus, the burden was beginning to look pretty light. Father, let me see a chance to serve You in every person who comes my way. —Pam Kidd Digging Deeper: Mt 25:31–40

In recognition of his standing and commitment to conservation and research, the University of Queensland was about to appoint him as an adjust professor, an honor bestowed on only a few who have made a significant contribution to their field. Steve didn’t know this had happened. The letter from the university arrived at Australia Zoo while we were in the field studying crocs during August 2006. He never got back to the pile of mail that included that letter. I know he would have proudly accepted the recognition of his achievement, but I also suspect that he would have remained humble and given credit to those around him, especially Terri, his mum and dad, Wes, John Stainton, and the incredible team at Australia Zoo. A year later, in 2007, we are back here in northern Australia, continuing the research in his name. There is a big gap in all our lives, but I feel he is here, all around us. One sure sign is that the sixteen-foot crocodile we named “Steve” keeps turning up in our traps. My life has been enriched by my friendship with Steve. I now sit around the fire with Terri, his family, and mates from Australia Zoo chatting about crocodiles and continuing the legacy Steve has left behind. Terri and Bob Irwin are now leading the croc-catching team from Australia Zoo, and Bindi is helping to affix the tracking devices to crocs, and so the tradition continues. I miss him. We all do. But I can sit at the campfire and look into the coals and hear his voice, always intense, always passionate, telling us stories and goading us on to achieve more. The enthusiasm and determination Steve shared with us is alive and well. He has touched so many lives. His memory will never fade, and this book will be one of the ways we can remind ourselves of our brush with the indomitable spirit of a loving husband, father, and son; a committed wildlife ambassador and conservationist; and a great mate. Professor Craig E. Franklin, School of Integrative Biology University of Queensland Lakefield National Park August 2007

Paul, the baby is coming very soon.” He smiled. “That’s getting real obvious.” “You’re my very best friend, Paul.” “Thanks, Vanni,” he said, but he furrowed his eyebrows. Suspicious. “I want you to be with me during the delivery.” “With you how?” he asked. “I want you to be the one to encourage me, coach me, coax me. Hold my hand. Support me.” “Um… Isn’t that Mel’s job?” “Mel is going to be very much a coach, but she’s also going to be the midwife and she’ll be busy with other things. Especially when the baby is coming out. I need you to do this.” “Vanni,” he said, scooting forward on his chair, “I’m a guy.” “I know. Guys do this.” “I can’t…Vanni, I shouldn’t…. Vanessa, listen. I can’t see you like that. It wouldn’t be…appropriate.” “Well, actually, I thought about my brother or my dad and frankly, that really doesn’t appeal to me. So,” she said, lifting a video from the table beside her, “I got us a childbirth movie from Mel.” “Aw, no,” he said, pleading. She stood up and popped it into the VCR, then sat down again with the remote in her hand. “Jack delivered his own son,” she said. “I know, but in case you’re interested, he wasn’t thrilled about it at the time. And he refuses to do it again—he’s adamant about that. And, Vanni, this isn’t my son. This is my best friend’s son.” “Of course I know that, Paul. But since it is your best friend’s son, he’d be so grateful.” She started the video. “Now, I want you to concentrate on what the partner is doing. Don’t worry about the mother. Most of the time while I’m in labor you’ll either be behind me, or helping me walk or squat to use gravity to help with the dilating, or reminding me to breathe properly. It’s not like you’re going to have your face in the field of birth.” “I’m starting to feel kind of weak,” he said. “Why don’t you ask Brie or Paige, if you need someone for that?” “I could do that, but to tell you the truth, I’m much closer to you. And you’re here—right here. You can do this. We’ll watch the movie together and if you have any questions, just ask me.” He looked at the screen, his brows drawn together. He squinted. This was an unattractive woman, giving birth. Well, not just yet—she was working up to it. Her big belly was sticking out, which was not what made her plain. It was the stringy hair, monobrow, baggy socks on her feet and—“Vanni, she has very hairy legs.” “If that’s what worries you I can still manage to shave my legs, even though I have to admit I’ve lost interest.” The hospital gown on the woman was draped over her belly and legs in such a way that when she started to rise into a sitting position, spreading her thighs and grabbing them to bear down, she was covered. Then the doctor or midwife or whoever was in charge flipped that gown out of the way and there, right in Paul’s face, was the top of a baby’s head emerging from the woman’s body. “Aw, man,” he whined, putting his head in his hands. “I said watch the coach—don’t worry about the woman,” Vanni lectured. “It’s pretty damn hard to not look at that, Vanni,” he said. “Concentrate.” So

My heart sunk. I never understood why people felt sorry for me. Yes it hurt knowing I’d never meet my mom, but I hadn’t had the chance to lose her. She was already gone. But this? I would never understand Brandon’s hurt, and I didn’t know how to try, but I wanted to take it away. What I did know, was that he didn’t need my condolences right now, so I reached my hand across the table and rested it on top of his. He made slow circles on my thumb causing my entire hand to heat up. “Tell me about him.” He glanced up and my breath caught at his expression. If a masculine man could be described as beautiful, then his expression was just that. “He was amazing. Hard worker, but always home for dinner with us. Brought my mom flowers every other weekend, never missed one of our games. Taught me how to play football and surf. He made sure to let us know we could have anything we wanted if we worked hard enough for it. I always wanted to be like him when I grew up. Everyone loved him, he was a great man.” “Sounds like it. I’m sure he would be very proud of you.” He smiled at me and sat back into the chair, looking at me intently. “What?” “I’ve never had someone ask me that. Normally people just tell me they’re sorry and get uncomfortable. It’s awkward and to be honest, gets kind of old.” “Does it bother you that I asked?” “Not at all. It’s nice to talk about him sometimes. Your dad ever talk about your mom?” “Um, not exactly. Just said enough to let me know I reminded him too much of her. It never made sense to me, he always kept me close, like with the home-schooling, but he always made it clear he didn’t want me.” I snapped my mouth shut before I could say anything else. I exhaled in relief when he didn’t ask me to explain that further. “Well it’s his loss.” Yeah,

When I got closer I heard Brandon’s warm animated voice and slowed, trying to hear whatever he was telling our son. I was already smiling to myself when I peeked around the slightly ajar door, he was talking to him about one of his surfing days. No … he was talking to him about one of Chase’s surfing days. And he had the scrapbook of Chase’s life on the dresser below them, pointing to one of the pictures. A soft gasp escaped my chest and I tried to slow my breathing so I could continue to listen without Brandon knowing I was here. “… he was always doing crazy stuff like that, it’s why everyone loved him, but it got him in trouble more times than not. No one else would have continued to surf after that, and we were all trying to get him to come in. Brad and I rode out to force him to, since he had this huge cut on his eyebrow from where that guy punched him, but by the time we got out there he was already catching another wave and riding it in. I swear he knew how to piss us off too, because those guys weren’t happy we started coming back out. Your dad could out-surf those guys, and I could fight them, but just a warning son, don’t ever try to fight someone while on your surfboard out in the ocean. It doesn’t really work out for anyone, and you look stupid trying to throw punches while treading water. We ended up laughing too hard and inviting them to the party that night, calling a truce.” Brandon flipped to the next page and chuckled lightly, pointing at one of the pictures again, “Like I said, he was crazy and always doing stupid crap,” flipping the page again he pointed to one and said softly, “but your mom changed that.” I froze and tilted my head in even further. “The day I met your mom, I knew she would be in my life forever. There was something about her and I knew I was already falling in love with her that first day. She made you want to be better, to attempt to be worthy of her love. Unfortunately your dad felt the same way; no one understood why he drastically changed, except for me. Even though she was with me, he stopped drinking, stopped sleeping with other girls, it’s like she made him instantly mature into the guy he eventually wanted to be so he could have an opportunity with her. I was always afraid I’d lose her to him someday, it’s like I knew it was a matter of when, not if. But your mom was different, I’d dated plenty of girls, but I hadn’t really cared if they were there or not. It was just someone to try to fill the ache of losing my dad. So when I met her and realized my feelings, I fought to keep her as long as I could. Don’t tell your momma, but Chase and I were constantly fighting over her when she wasn’t around. Hell, we even fought over her when she was around. We knew either of us could have any girl we wanted, but we both only wanted Harper. So of course, being us, words were used and fists flew whenever we were alone. I didn’t tell her this, but I already knew what had happened with your dad before she told me. When I got home from break, and Chase never bothered me again, I knew something had happened. I just didn’t know what yet. But you know what little man? I can’t even be mad about it anymore, because if it hadn’t happened, you wouldn’t be here right now.” He gently kissed our three month old son who was completely enthralled in his stories and pointed to the last picture in the book. “And he loved you and your mom, so much. I’ll always remind you of that, but I wish you could have met him.” I

Memory is light, illuminating and reminding me of so many things about my dad; reminding each of us who mourn a love both gone and yet still present, still warm and aglow even when skies are gray. If we remember, nothing can ever take our sunshine away. 8 Nobody Wants Your Crap To have more does not mean to be more. —Abraham Joshua Heschel

Chris’s eldest daughter Lily appears onstage and delivers a sage piece of wisdom her dad had imparted to her. “The most influential advice he gave me was that his success did not come from a desire for [success], it was more from a passion and an absolute love for what he did,” she said. “He reminded me often it was an added benefit, but that can never be the driving factor. My dad had a beautiful gift but the most important part of it was that he loved what he did, and he did it because he loved it.

I went into the control room with Mike and noticed a synthesiser on a desk in the corner. It was a MiniMoog. I’d never seen a real synth before, and it was a fascinating machine to look at. Dials and switches from one side to the other, the rear section tipped up like a portable control panel. In many ways it reminded me of the control panel my dad had made for me as a child, except this one looked incredibly high-tech. I’d always associated synths with prog-rock bands like Yes and ELP, and that sort of music had never really been of any interest to me. I’d liked some of what Kraftwerk had done, and really liked some of the things Bowie had done with Brian Eno, but none of it had ever made me think of synths as a way forward for me.

Step 4: Engage your child to problem-solve with you. Offer “leading” ideas, but allow your child to experience the aha moment of brainstorming a coping mechanism. Resist the urge to explain the fear away or solve the problem on your own. Phrases like “I wonder” and “I’m thinking about” help engage your child in problem-solving. It might sound like this: “Hmm . . . I’m wondering if we can go to the basement and start going down the stairs one at a time . . . let me know when the scary feeling starts and when it feels like it’s getting bigger.” As you inquire about the fear in this way, you infuse your parental presence into the moment, and as your child feels less alone in her fear, it won’t hold such a strong grip. Next, maybe say, “I wonder what you could say to yourself as you go down one of the stairs . . .” Or maybe you suggest a solution like, “I’m thinking about practicing going down one stair now, then in a few days maybe another stair, and the next day a few more . . . hmm . . .” Step 5: Create a mantra. For kids who struggle with anxiety, mantras can be very helpful in the moment. Whether spoken out loud or recited internally, a mantra focuses their attention on the calming words rather than the source of distress. Examples of mantras include, “It’s okay to be nervous. I can get through this,” “I can feel scared and brave at the same time,” and “I’m safe, my parents are near.” Work with your child to develop a mantra that feels good to them and encourage them to repeat it during scary moments. Step 6: Share a “slowly coping with a fear” story. Yours might sound like: “This reminds me of when I was about your age, and I was scared of dogs. I still remember how bad those moments felt in my body.” Do not offer a quick fix like, “But then I realized that I was safe and it was okay.” Instead offer a story of slow coping, something like: “I remember talking to my dad about it, and realizing it was okay to feel scared. I remember that my dad and I would read a lot about dogs, then I’d start to walk closer to dogs with him. And then one day, my dad helped me touch a dog. Little by little, dogs felt less scary. It was such hard work to be brave when I was feeling scared!

My name is Olivia King I am five years old. My mother bought me a balloon. I remember the day she walked through the front door with it. The curly hot-pink ribbon trickling down her arm, wrapped around her wrist. She was smiling at me as she untied the ribbon and wrapped it around my hand. “Here, Livie, I bought this for you.” She called me Livie. I was so happy. I’d never had a balloon before. I mean, I always saw balloons wrapped around other kids’ wrists in the parking lot of Walmart, but I never dreamed I would have my very own. My very own pink balloon. I was so excited! So ecstatic! So thrilled! I couldn’t believe my mother bought me something! She’d never bought me anything before! I played with it for hours. It was full of helium, and it danced and swayed and floated as I pulled it around from room to room with me, thinking of places to take it. Thinking of places the balloon had never been before. I took it into the bathroom, the closet, the laundry room, the kitchen, the living room. I wanted my new best friend to see everything I saw! I took it to my mother’s bedroom! My mother’s Bedroom? Where I wasn’t supposed to be? With my pink balloon… I covered my ears as she screamed at me, wiping the evidence off of her nose. She slapped me across the face and reminded me of how bad I was! How much I misbehaved! How I never listened! She shoved me into the hallway and slammed the door, locking my pink balloon inside with her. I wanted him back! He was my best friend! Not hers! The pink ribbon was still tied around my wrist so I pulled and pulled, trying to get my new best friend away from her. And it popped. My name is Eddie. I’m seventeen years old. My birthday is next week. I’ll be the big One-Eight. My foster dad is buying me these boots I’ve been wanting. I’m sure my friends will take me out to eat. My boyfriend will buy me a gift, maybe even take me to a movie. I’ll even get a nice little card from my foster-care worker, wishing me a happy eighteenth birthday, informing me I’ve aged out of the system. I’ll have a good time. I know I will. But there’s one thing I know for sure. I better not get any shitty-ass pink balloons!

I know this day is going to be hard for you. My dad, your grandfather, always used to say to me, the hard times define us and how we use the memory of it defines our future... What is that supposed to mean? I guess it means we stay strong even when we don't want to. Use your sadness as a reminder, but never let it hold you back.

Dad used to make me tea at night during the pregnancy whenever I was feeling sick.” “Really?” I removed her hands from my stomach. “He did that?” “Yup. He even bought me a bunch of different flavors so I wouldn’t get bored with any of them. He’d bring me a steaming cup in bed and tell me to close my eyes, see if I could guess the flavor.” It was hard to picture this. Him putting water in a pot, boiling it, steeping a mug with Earl Grey, English Breakfast, chamomile. I couldn’t even picture him in the checkout lane at the grocery store with anything other than Miller Lite and jelly beans. That man bringing tea to his pregnant wife wasn’t the same as the one who once picked me up from school two hours late, with crushed Miller Lite cans and gum wrappers covering the floor of his car, the front of his gray gym shorts soaked in piss, shouting over and over, “Get in, we’re going to Disneyland.” I thought about telling Mom this memory, reminding her of that other man. “Or is it something else?” she asked. “What can I do?” She would never be able to help me. Her loyalties would always lie with him, this dead man who showed her sides he never showed to me.

She curls tightly to me kissing me on the lips and cheeks, her body skin to skin to mine, she’s kind of- like- a hyper puppy… you know- wet nose, big sad eyes, giving you lots of unwanted wet kisses, and can’t sit in one place for too long. Now she is pulling on my necklace, the one I am always wearing has my dad’s wedding ring hanging from it-a thin silver chain and the gold band hanging from it, a gift dad gives me- saying- ‘He loves me more than mom, that I am the love of his life.’ Yet sis tugs gently to get my full attention. I ask here- ‘Why are you not wearing your undies?’ And she baby- talks without missing a beat- ‘Be- because you don’t at night so-o why should I’s.’ I knew not too long from now she would be running around the house stark-naked like always, saying it’s because I sleep this way. I am sure mom will say I am a bad role model, but yet there are far worse things she has done, things that mom and dad never need to know about, things that I can even remember right now. If she wants to be in my bad nude, will- I guess that’s okay…? She is just trying to be like me, and that’s sweet. I have saved her butt many times when she has done bad things. I have been like a mom to her, ever since she was born if I wanted to be or not. And she has been there for me when I was a nobody. Yeah, she’s the best pain in the butt a girl can have. ‘Mommy says you have to get up soon, her hand covering her eyes as she walks my room and sees both of us.’ Her breath smells like toothpaste, as she kisses us good morning, and she stumbles over all the stuff lying on the floor and it’s not until I push sis off me that I realize how badly I’m shaking. Mom, she has one of those green face masks sped up, which is some scary-looking crap, pulls she has curlers in her hair. Yet that’s not what’s got me traumatized. ‘It’s Friday,’ I say confused. I thought we were going to the rusty anchor today? Mom said- ‘I thought you didn’t like doing that Karly that you’re too grown up to be with your mommy and Daddy and sissy… always- yes we are all going this upcoming weekend, glad to see you want to go.’ I said- ‘Oh- okay?’ Mom- ‘Karly are you feeling, okay? Are you not your usual descent and moody self? Me- ‘Yah I am a fine mom.’ I have no idea how I got home last night, or what I did or didn’t do. It’s like it never happened, yet I think it did… didn’t it? Maybe I drink too much? Mom said- ‘Um-hum- come on you two bare cuddle bugs it’s getting late.’ Then- I remember getting in the car, with the girls and the fighting it was all coming back to me, as I see my sis run into her room, leaving her nighty behind on my bed. I knew that something looked different about her when I looked her over, I am starting to remember what Ray did to her last night. Yet she seems to be taking it so well- so strange. I have no idea what happened to Jenny or Maddie or Liv, and just thinking about it makes me awful sick, pissed, and yet so worried. I put my feet on the ground, first on my fuzzy shaggy throw rug, and then I step forward feeling the hard would under my feet. The cold wood reminds me. When I was younger, I would lie on the floor all summer wishing I have some friends to spend my time with. Back then my only friend was my sis and my horse, I’m curious to do the same thing now, and reflect a bit on what the heck is going on- and also on how things have changed, I know my sis will be another half hour getting ready. And with me, all I have to do is jump in my outfit laying there on the floor. My skin feels so cold yet, yet on the inside, I feel scorching. Like- photos on Instagram, all these snapshots start scrolling, row after row in my mind. Seeing bits and pieces of what went down last night. My, I- phone starts vibrating on top of my bed until it falls off the edge hitting me square in the face making me jump two feet in the air. I reach for it and slide my finger over the cracked screen.

My dad told me not to think I know the future. He reminded me that retired people save money to live a life in retirement differently from the way they lived life while working. He also said, some men prefer not to retire because they think it means they have outlived their usefulness. Most men, including myself, no longer feel this way. They view retirement as an accomplishment and a reward. I don’t know why I thought about the past, while having a conversation about the future. This, too was a surprise.

You can’t teach hungry, my dad always reminded me. Either you are or you aren’t.

To introduced myself to you in this nightmare story.I'm a victim of rape on my childhood stage l'd experienced rape in my life the victim were my sibblings and community members as I told you that on my growth. My mum was upsent it were only my dad, sister and brother in my house my dad were living with heart condition desease than my mom choose to hunting work live us with dad on my toddler stage hape you imagine the situation.By telling you this I don'nt expected your pitty or. being sorry for me but I'm going somewhere I want to speak with someone who condem,look him or herself down lost confident with same and other stuation.There's hope if l managed to survive on my situations you can to.God favoured me my introduced himself to me on my teenage stage ashored me that he love me and transformed my life mostly healed me day by day couse this situations is deep it a proccess to be heal in it l use to say it like living in fire where you need to live with God himself in it.Why I say this? allow me to say it some sort of journey of chosen people.The reason is other people take it easy as we have different categories of help and high science source to cure this the truth is it can't why?Rape destroy the whole life of person as human divided into 3 part which is body,soul spirit as I experience it not once several times till I reach the stage where I can rescure myself by confronting the victims,shortly it spoiled my whole 3 part you see I needed my creater to rebuid me and that not heppening overnight I personally say rape victims needed. Lifesaviour and Lifeguide who is God himself to rescue and guide you in life journey course this thing is a beast that never die if you never experience it you'll never understand it thanks for your trying don't need to.what I need is your support,how? pray for me,not feeling sorry,give hope,listen me,never judge ,stop gossip rather ask the ask,allow me to take my own decisions, give me time,be partient of me,avoid to remind me my past,believe in me,be careful on showing me my weekest sport rather put me on the spot where I can see for myself, give me chance of proving myself. This is what I can do;Forgive,move on,not forget,love other people not trust them 100% ,(truely fall in love conditional),Over protective while others says I'm selfish,depend on God's hand 100%, sensetive person, enjoy my space,help others, prayful person,other people says I'm moody person when I separate myself to meet with God in his present,can think wise things and do big things,focus on something that can keep my mind busy to escape on thinking about past,fight to change, enjoy to spend time with fruitfull freinds, rocking on doing my own business, on my own space,Not easy to accept people in my space till I know him or her better,enjoy nature things,love to be me,layalt pertionate & kind person.

I check my email. Once more, nothing from my brother Hayden. My nearly empty glass follows me to my bedroom, and I lie there, half asleep, half woozy from too much alcohol. I run my hand through my hair. I’m back on the Walla Walla. The images are fuzzy, like an old VHS tape. Hayden is asleep, and I gently lift him away, deeper into a nest of paper towels. I turn in the dim light of the ferry bathroom and hold up my hair with one hand. I reach for the scissors and start cutting. Locks fall like autumn leaves over the dingy countertop and into the bottom of the pitted white sink. I cut, and I cut. Tears roll down my cheeks, but I don’t make a sound. I open a box of dye and apply it with the thin plastic gloves that come in the box. I smell the chemicals as my hair eclipses from brown to blond. I rinse in the sink, the acrid odor wafting through the still air of the bathroom. I tear a ream of paper towels to wring out the water and then, in what I think is a brilliant move, I turn on the hand dryer and rotate my head against the hot spray of air. I am in Maui. I am in Tahiti. I’m on the beach and I have a tan. A handsome boy looks at me and I smile. The dryer stops, and I look in the mirror and I see her. Mom. I look just like my mother. It was unintended genius. Hayden, now awake, seems to agree. “I miss Mom. Do you think they found Dad?” I indicate the second box of hair dye. “Your turn, Hayden.” He climbs up on the counter and lays his head in the sink as I wet his hair with lukewarm water. It reminds me of when he was a baby and Mom washed him in the sink instead of the tub. He scrunches his eyes shut as I rub in the dye. When I’m done, he will be transformed. He’ll no longer be the little boy with the shock of blond hair, the one that makes him look like he’s stepped out of the page of a cute kids’ clothing website. I look down at the name on the dye box.

You would.” She was, after all, an excellent mom. Busy, for sure. Scatterbrained. But that never mattered. After Dad, what I needed wasn’t someone who’d come to my meets, memorize dives’ names, pack me nutritious lunches. Vandy’s mom is a little absent, huh? I once overheard, bored parents gossiping in the stands. But that was dumb. Barb was there when I needed her, always, without me having to ask, ever. She put me first in any meaningful way. Reminded me that adults could be trusted, that they didn’t have to be scary and unpredictable—they could protect and nurture and allow freedom.

I'd remind you to remember just the fuck it is you're talking to. I may be your fiance, but I'm not your bitch, and I'm getting real tired of this spoiled-princess routine your dad helps flourish. You may get away with mouthing off to him, but you won't disrespect me again." Tears line her lower lid, and a bit of guilt whips through my middle. I loosen my grip. "You get me?

I wish your sister was here. It seems wrong to have a celebration without her.” Not to me, it didn’t. Just for once, I was quite enjoying being the focus of attention. It might sound childish, but it was true. I loved having Will and Dad laughing about me. I loved the fact that every element of supper—from roast chicken to chocolate mousse—was my favorite. I liked the fact that I could be who I wanted to be without my sister’s voice reminding me

He reminded me of a kid in my first-grade class, Mikey. Mikey used to talk about his pencil at Show’n’Tell. It was a fat green pencil with the school’s name and district number stenciled on it. Every kid in the class had an identical pencil. But that didn’t stop Mikey. He would hold it up for us to see, read the stenciled name and number to us, tell us it was a gift from his grandma, or his dad, or his uncle, tell us how green it was, and how fat, tell us how we must be sure to turn the dial on the pencil sharpener to the very biggest hole before attempting to sharpen such a pencil, point out to those who’d just joined us that yes it was a pencil, and yes wasn’t it a fat one, and wasn’t it green, and he’d show it and tell it and tell it and show it till children of frailer constitution started passing out from ennui and the teacher would have to carry him by his belt, telling all the way, to his desk.

snuck into Abby’s room first. I smiled upon seeing her pink, star-shaped night light and the way she was clinging to her stuffed animal, Colin. At her age, she still sucked her thumb when she slept. I approached her bed and twisted a tendril of her blonde hair with my forefinger. “I’ll miss you, dwarfette.” I kicked myself for being so dramatic. It wasn’t like the hunters were going to take me captive and keep me from ever seeing my family again, but I knew that the choice I was making was going to break my family’s heart. My next stop was my parents’ bedroom. I snuck a peek at them cuddled in their bed, a reminder of how in love they still were with each other after all those years—something I felt I could never have now that Sofia had left me. I slipped through the door and snuck inside the room, careful to be as quiet as I possibly could. I saw my dad’s car keys above their drawers and took them. I took one last look at my parents and whispered, “I’m sorry.

I know he’s lying, but even so, he could convince me if I was stupid enough to let him do it. I yank my hand from his. He reaches over and takes it back calmly, as if he’s making a statement. “You know what?” I tell him. “Same holds true for you as for your dad. You don’t get to announce that you’re…you’re…” I choke on the words. Marrying me. The concept is completely ridiculous. We don’t even know each other. And even though he’s acting, even though I know this isn’t real, I don’t even know why he’s doing this. “You don’t get to announce that without talking to me about it.” He looks me square in the eyes. “It’s a statement of intent.” Fuck. I can feel a tension winding in me, curling tighter and tighter. “I got her out to meet you under false pretenses,” Blake says. “She doesn’t know how serious I am. In fact, I bet she doesn’t believe me now. She’s coming up with a reason why I’d say this to you.” True. I have to keep reminding myself of that reason. He wants to do the swap; he thinks I should have the prototypes. Ergo, he must pretend to be serious about me. “One of these days, though,” Blake tells his father, “she’s going to realize that I think the sun rises on her smile.” I inhale slowly. It’s almost cruel of him to be such a good actor. If we were in any kind of relationship—if we’d so much as kissed before—I would have been completely snowed.

At the table, I was surprised to see my favorite kind of lasagna being served in a baking dish just like one of ours at home. When I mentioned this, Greta’s mom said that Marie had come over with it and brought some school clothes for me, as well. I guess my folks had just accepted the fact that I had left home for good. It hurt to think they would just let me go like that. I wondered what Marie had told Mrs. Mallard about my fight with my dad. “Tomorrow morning, Greta and Albert and I will leave here at seven o’clock sharp,” Greta’s mom said to me. “I have to open the school office half an hour before the first bell, so we always leave early. Someone will pick you up at seven-thirty and drive you to your school, Lindsay.” “I can walk,” I said. I didn’t want to see either of my parents. “Well, I’ve been told that you don’t have your schoolbooks here. You left them at home. Of course, you will need them tomorrow, so it’s best you go along with this plan,” Mrs. Mallard replied. Her words suddenly reminded me that I hadn’t done my homework. I could see that the next days were going to be hard. Our animals were in grave danger, we were breaking the law, and my parents didn’t seem to care that I’d moved out. I suddenly felt so terrible that a big lump formed in my throat, and I couldn’t swallow the lasagna. I held my glass of milk up to my mouth and pretended to drink, so that no one would notice my eyes were filling with tears. Luckily, I was saved when Greta’s mom mentioned that there was going to be a film about owls on TV. “I think it’s about to start. Why don’t you girls take your plates into the living room and watch it?” I was sure glad to leave the table before I made a fool of myself.

One day, boy. One day some other schmuck is gonna walk into her life and recognize her for what she is, and you’re not gonna know what to do with yourself.” “Dad. We’re friends,” he says, but I know he’s saying it to remind himself as much as me. Meanwhile, his jaw ticks. It’s obvious the thought of her with another guy doesn’t sit well with him.” “Yeah. I’ve never heard of friends turning into more. Ever. Good luck with that.” I chuckle and tip my coffee cup in his direction.

As an adult, I’ve grieved not having had my dad around to call me princess, to tell me how beautiful I was and to threaten the boys I dated. I’ve mourned the loss of not having a dad I could curl up and feel secure with. A dad who would teach me how to be a self-respecting woman. A dad who would remind me that I was valued and worth more than perhaps I believed I was.

Dear Diary, “Z! Get up for school!” my mom yelled at me this evening. The sun had just gone down, and the moon was on the way up, which meant that it was time to get ready for school. My name is Zombulon, Z for short, and I’m a zombie. Looking at my name and what kind of creature I am really makes my parents look lazy, but I don’t think that they ever imagined that they’d have another kid after my older brother because his name is Arrgh, or R for short. My parents are really into one-letter nicknames. Once my brother called my parents M and D for a while, but they didn’t like that at all. It really wasn’t fair. What also isn’t fair is that I’ve got to wake up right at nightfall for school when all of the other kids get to wake up at the crack of dawn. I bet they all feel really lucky about it. It must be great to be able to wake up to the sun in your eyes instead of having to go to bed when it comes up. Being a zombie is really complicated for a lot of reasons, but my main complaint is that I can’t go outside during the day because if I do I’ll burn up. It’s like all of those stories about vampires who turn to dust in the sunlight, except for zombies are real and I just happen to be one of them. Because zombies can’t go out into the sun, most of them tend to be afraid of anything that can go into the sun and live to tell the tale. I swear that once R ran away from a chicken just because he had never seen one before. It was pretty funny. The punch in the arm that he gave me after I laughed at him was not funny. Another weird thing about being a zombie, or a monster in general around here, is that we’ve all got to go to night school. Usually, when humans talk about night school, they’re complaining about adults who they think are dumber than them for not going to college right away and waiting to take classes after work or something. My mom complains about it every once in a while, and then my dad reminds her that their best human friend went to night school and now he’s loaded. Anyway, monster night school is different. It’s just a bunch of kids like me going to school together at night. Zombies, skeletons, pigmen, and other monsters are all allowed to go to the school. Personally, I think that the humans and villagers just don’t want us to scare their kids. Anyway, Mom’s pitching a fit downstairs, so I guess that I better get ready for school. After all, it is my first day of middle school, so she wants everything to be extra special for me. I’m going to write all about it tomorrow when I actually have some news. I’m sure I will because today is going to be the first day of school this year, and new stuff always happens on the first day.

He looks up and notices the Plexiglas box on the rickety shelf above the toilet and his eyes grow two sizes bigger. He looks at me and back at the trophy. "Is that a fucking Stanley Cup ring?" "Yeah. Jude's first," I explain. "He gave it to my dad. Dad used to keep it here. It was a prized possession in his favorite place." "In the shitter?" Holden is both stunned and horrified as he rises to his feet and leans forward to admire it. "He kept it on his dresser, where he could see it first thing in the morning and last thing at night." I say and I almost smile as I explain the rest. "But Sadie, Dixie and I always move it to the bathroom. At first, Jude actually thought Dad kept it there, but then he realized it was our way of keeping him humble. Reminding him rings and trophies mean shit to us. He still has to be a good person." Holden chuckles and I'm surprised by how good it feels to make him laugh. "You girls sure know how to keep a guy in place ... and dishonor a symbol of the hardest trophy to win in sports.

Nana’s funeral was packed wall-to-wall. And I cried hard and dramatically, completely unable to keep it together despite having known for the better part of a year that she was going to die. Death was the worst, and I hated the way it reminded me of how out of control I was. But the older I go, the more death became a constant. Friends lost loved ones, my family lost friends, and my dad and mom put our family cat down after 17 years. With every death, I taught myself to emote a little bit less, pushing the acknowledgment of loss down as far as I could, desperate for a sense of control over the uncontrollable.

We don't live our lives alone, but that doesn't mean we see those alongside whom we live our lives. When Dad moved to Northern Norway and was no longer physically in front of me with his body and his voice, his temper and his eyes, in a way he disappeared from my life, in the sense that he was reduced to a kind of discomfort I occasionally felt when he called or when something reminded me of him, then a kind of zone within me was activated, and in that zone lay all my feelings for him, but he was not there. Later, in his notebooks, I read about the Christmas when he called from the Canary Islands and the weeks that followed. Here he stands before me as he was, in midlife, and perhaps that is why reading them is so painful for me, he wasn't only much more than my feelings for him but infinitely more, a complete and living person in the midst of his life.

espresso and tapas and it’s perfect for my current mood. As I walk along, pounding the hard pavement, a woman on roller skates burns past me, her white shirt billowing around like a puff of smoke as she elbows me out of the way. The roller skates remind me of Dad, and of clinging on to his hand as I attempted to balance on the pair of rainbow-coloured roller skates I got for my tenth birthday. Thinking of Dad makes me wonder what it must have been like for him all of those years ago. I ponder for a moment, and then after remembering what Sam said in the club, I pull my mobile out from my bag and scroll through the address book to find his number. ‘Hello darling, what a wonderful surprise. Is everything OK?’ His voice sounds worried. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ There’s an awkward silence. ‘I am at work,’ I reply, a little too sharply. ‘Well, I just popped out and … err, I’m sorry I couldn’t talk to you the other day,’ I manage, trying to disguise the unease in my voice. ‘So how are you?’ I add, awkwardly. ‘I’m fine. A bit tired. Anyway, enough about me. It’s so nice to hear from you,’ he says, and for a moment it’s as though everything that’s gone on between us before has been forgotten in an instant. But then my back constricts. I start to feel as though calling him was a bad idea, and I realise that I’m just not ready to forget what he did to us … especially to Mum. ‘You know I was telling Uncle Geoffrey

I had a nickname in school too, didn’t I Jenn? Mom, do you remember?” Ms. Jameson’s face lit up, “Matt! I had completely forgotten about that.” “Oh, sonny!” G-ma said. “Didn’t your friends call you Matty-Math-Maker?” “They sure did!” Mr. Maker said proudly. “To me, it was a badge of honor. With my interests in math and science, I have built a successful career as a software engineer.” Missy rolled her eyes. She never knew about her dad’s nickname, but she had heard this math-path story many times before. Mr. Maker liked to remind Missy that studying math and science opened doors to wealth and success. And, after hearing Sarah DeMott earlier

Do you want a drink?” Bailey asked, and she handed us some cups. “I think we earned one,” Paige said as she set the bottle of flavored vodka down with a grin. “I would say so,” I said. “Especially Anna and Bailey,” Paige said. “You two were awesome today.” “Excuse you,” Tara sneered playfully. “I stabbed a guy in the dick today, I think I deserve an awesome.” “You all did awesome,” I laughed. “Yeah,” Paige said with a nod. “But Anna took out the dad with a knife which was totally badass.” “That was pretty good,” Tara agreed as she poured herself a drink. “It was difficult,” Anna said, but she looked down, and I could tell she was still upset from our talk. “I thought about using my gun but I really wanted to use my knife.” “It worked out,” I told her with a smile. “But you always had the option of your gun, and I’m glad you knew that.” “Hang on just a second,” Rolly said, and he looked incredibly confused. “Tara, did you just say you stabbed a man in the genitals?” “Dick,” Tara clarified seriously. “Yeah, I stabbed him in the dick.” “Remind me to stay on your good side,” the old man chuckled.

The cafe across from the hotel served chicken and dumplings that reminded me of the ones Ma made. So, even though I preferred unclogged arteries at seven in the morning, I indulged myself for sentimentality’s sake. Chicken and dumplings used to be Dad’s favorite. We had it every holiday and for all three meals on his birthday. These didn’t hold a candle to Ma’s, but the dumplings had been cut into the same shape, and if I squinted my eyes and medicated myself enough, I could probably convince myself they were Ma’s. Add in some hallucinogenics, and I’d be fighting Dad for the leftovers.

That seems like a lot of work,” I say. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to move into a new house?” She stops short and glares at me. “This is where we have always lived. This is our home. We try to improve it, not abandon it.” The last time my family visited, she and Tito Maning kept making passive-aggressive comments like this about Dad in front of everyone. Though Tita Chato would defend him, he never called them out on it. He’d just look down like a dog that’s been reminded of its place in the pack as the third-born. As a little kid, I didn’t know what was going on between them and nobody bothered to tell me. It was only later, from Jun’s letters, that I came to understand how they resented Dad for leaving.

Well, it’s my first language, so yeah,” Amira says. “Mom’s Cuban, Dad’s Puerto Rican. I speak Spanish. That’s not weird.” She says it defensively, and I’m reminded of the stupid comment I made when Ma said Amira was Black. Does Amira actually think I have some issue with her being Latine? Guilt floods me again as I try to find the words to make it clear that that’s not even close to how I feel. “I didn’t say it was weird. It’s . . .” Different. Interesting. Impressive. “Cool,” I say finally. “It’s cool.” “Thanks.

Saul's only conversation is reserved for when the girls are around and it's boastful and boring. He reminds me too much of my dad. A brilliant mind dulled with alcohol and egoism. I only hope Saul doesn't break the way my dad did

It was a bittersweet evening. I kept wanting my dad to be there with me. It was a reminder of how we can take people for granted. It's easy to believe that you will wake up every day with the people who were with you the day prior. You watch them age, but do you see them growing old or ever picture them not being here?

Everything in Ohio had reminded me of my dad, my grief, my fear, and my loneliness. Several numb months after that night, I had packed a small suitcase, put Phoebe in her dog carrier, got in my car, and drove off. It felt like the only option. The sadness was suffocating, claustrophobic. I needed to escape.

So light and airy, painted in whites and blues. It reminds me of delft pottery—the kind my dad still keeps in a china cabinet in the dining room from my mom’s family in the Netherlands.

But even if she didn’t want to speak to me anymore, I didn’t want to stay away from her. Maggie made me feel stronger. She reminded me that I wasn’t alone in this world. That others had gone through this too. That I could be what my momma needed me to be . . . what my dad needed me to be.

Dad didn't hate weddings," Mae said. Her mom's brow creased. "Yes, he did," she said with a chuckle. "He was always going on about how he could go the rest of his life without hearing the wedding march ever again." "No, he didn't," Mae said more firmly. She set her fork down. "He hated going to your family's weddings. Because it meant being around a bunch of white people who were just subtle enough to keep their racism discreet." That did it. Susan froze. John took a long drink from his wineglass. Connor's gaze steadied on Mae, a haze of uncertainty in his eyes. Madison jerked her head back. Sierra watched her, looking vaguely curious. Her mom stared, mouth open. "It was inevitable," Mae continued. "Whenever we had to be around the Parkers. Someone would always say something borderline. Dad and I would exchange a look, like, Here we go. Every wedding, every Christmas, every Thanksgiving, every Easter, we would sit across from each other at a table full of white people and share our silent little looks." Her face was burning. Every pair of eyes at the table was laser-focused on her. Even Jayla, sitting one table over with the wedding party, was staring. Mae's mom opened her mouth, which just reminded Mae she had more to say. "I wish you'd told me about grandma being racist to Althea." It was mortifying, spilling her guts in front of her in-laws, but it was freeing, too. Like she was invincible. Like even though she was about to wreck her entire life, at least no one could stop her. You couldn't stop a hurricane. "You said you didn't want me to feel different around her, but, Mom, I already did. And I wish you'd told me I had a sister. Do you know how much less alone I would have felt, knowing Sierra was my sister? Being around family that looked like me? Instead of a grandpa who said the n-word in front of me when I was eight? Or my husband's mom asking me how dark my skin gets in the sun?" Susan paled. "Or a cousin who--- you know what, Madison," Mae said, catching her eye across the table, "it is racist to say you refuse to shop at Black-owned businesses, and I shouldn't have defended you when Sierra called you on it." Madison's cheeks reddened, and she looked like she was going to object, but Mae wasn't done. "Is it any wonder that I would drive to Hobson and sacrifice so much to stay there, burning through all my PTO, giving up my entire honeymoon, because I finally had a family that didn't make me feel out of place?

My heart swells to an almost breaking point. I love Roman so much. I’m not usually overly sappy, but watching my dad pour love into others will always get me. Because it reminds me of how much love he’s poured into me.

Can you take us to the woods again, Uncle Lancelot?” Darius’s seven-year-old boy, Rygar, asked keenly. He’d come up with the nickname himself after reading about the legend of King Arthur at school, and I liked the reminder of my father’s old name for me. “Before our snickety snacks have reached our tumblebums?” Augustaline scoffed, looking to her dad, and Max shrugged, turning to Geraldine who snapped her fingers. “By the wind on my nelly, she’s right. Let’s eat and be merry as mangoes in a sweet soup before we go gallivanting into the yonder.” She steered Augustaline towards the fire pit where a pizza oven was ready to go for our meal. “Oh come on, Moon Uncle,” Elara pouted at me, and I threw a glare at Seth who smirked at the name he had most definitely told her to call me.

I took one look at that alien head and started to panic again. I mean, how could I trust a guy with an alien head on his face? Pushing my way back to the bathroom for another cry session, I said to him, “Jimmy, I don’t think I can do this. I mean, making PB&Js is kid stuff. I’d be like the best superhero ever for a birthday party. Those little ankle biters could just eat sandwiches and smoosh them in each other’s faces the whole time.” Jimmy looked at me blankly. Maybe “ankle biters” reminded him too much of his little brother, Randy the Terror. “But beating a super villain?” I continued, shaking my head. “He’s gonna turn me into a bean burrito!” Jimmy suddenly snapped back to reality. “I love bean burritos,” he said. “Exactly,” I said. “He’ll turn me into a burrito, and you can eat it. Case closed.” “You know, PB&J, all this burrito talk is making me thirsty.” So we walked to the kitchen to find some juice. My mom and dad were watching the morning news in the living room. “Hey, guys!” They were both talking in high voices and had big smiles on their faces, like actors in a terrible show for babies. There was an awkward pause. Jimmy tripped on the back of my shoe and hit the kitchen counter. As he fell to the ground again, he started making a strange mooing sound. Suddenly, Mom spoke up. Her voice was cracked and high-pitched. From my ten years of experience with Mom, she was also about to start crying at any second—and I’m talking thunderstorm tears, not just a light cry like my bathroom time. I braced for the worst and considered grabbing an umbrella.

I was being a selfish teenager and it was hurting my mom and making my dad angry. He sat me down and said, "I need to remind you: you are not the reason we got married. You are a wonderful by-product. But you need to know that I loved your mom before you were even a thought. And after you've left this house, I will still love her." I was shocked. It was like, "You are a blip on the screen of our relationship.