A Rare Lie
A decade after Dad died, I’d domesticated my grief into an item on my to-do list: Pack backpacks; supervise homework; acknowledge his gnawing absence. “If I had a time machine,” my 7-year-old said on Father’s Day, “I’d tell Steve not to kill himself. He never would have decided to die if he knew we’d exist.” “Of course not,” I replied, a rare lie. We discuss Dad’s suicide without secrecy or shame, but I can’t yet reveal its complexity. “You said he would’ve wanted us to call him Abuelo,” My son said. “Abuelo Steve, I wish I’d gotten to meet you.” — Ali Moss
To Everything There is a Season
11:30 p.m. in Minnesota is 11:30 a.m. the next day in Vietnam, where my boyfriend, Nghia, is on break at Iris Hotel, named after the flower of hope or the part of the eye that holds color. I text, asking what he’s craving — food, drink? — and open a delivery app, my credit card already saved. He wants guava juice and noodles with roasted pork belly. Eight thousand miles away, I order Nghia lunch. I know my gesture will not replace a hug. But my heart repeats Ecclesiastes: “a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing.” — John Ngoc Nguyen
Turning It Up
After winning a national beauty pageant, Ms. Canada United World, my partner told me to “tone it down” and asked that I remove Instagram posts of my accomplishments. I thought love meant compromise, so I practiced being smaller — fewer celebrations; less pride in my two businesses, my doctorate, my TEDx talk, my writing and teaching; softer in my ambitions. He left anyway. For too long, I thought I lost him because I was too much. Eventually, I realized the opposite was true: We are never meant to be less. Love that asks you to shrink isn’t love at all. — Shara Ally
‘My Hands Are Tools’
My hands stroked the backs of many lovers until I found them being gently held by the woman I love. My hands cared for our newborn children, and they soothed my mother as we spent her last day on earth together. I’m grateful that my hands are tools to caress and nurture the people I love, and I try to remember that I, too, deserve to be held and supported. Although my hands sometimes falter, they continue to connect me to others and to myself, guiding me as I age. — Robin Rosenbluth
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