The Best Advertising Campaign
A stoplight. A white truck. Pete’s eyes through the window. Instantly, I want to tell him everything. I keep seeing him: at church, Pete’s picture on an advertisement that arrives in my mailbox. He finds my number; we meet. I am cracked open. This won’t be easy. Both divorced, I have a young son. We wed on Thanksgiving, then adopt. Matched with birth mother Alyssa, we bring Gracen home. In spring, Alyssa’s pregnant again. Would we? Pete and three beautiful somehow-brothers — ages 13 years, 2½ and 4 months — are my tiny love story that started at a stoplight. — Julie Fitzpatrick
Mac’s Pardner, Gramma’s Darlin’
Markus came to our western Colorado ranch as an emotionally wounded 3-year-old. Shyly awed by my husband Mac’s big cowboy hat and quiet manner, we quickly became “Mac and Gramma.” Mac carried him horseback in daytime and patted his back until he slept at night. We worried — would our love ever heal? Months later, at a livestock auction, an old man approached, staring down at the quiet child, our grandson. “And who are you?” His tiny cowboy hat pulled low, Markus proudly piped up in his small voice, “I’m Mac’s pardner and Gramma’s darlin’!” We high-fived above his cowboy hat. — Barbara Stratman
Borrowed Faith
He was 75. I was 42. He lived 7,000 miles away. He ran cross-country in college. I asked if he would join me in a winter half marathon. Hesitant yet excited, my father, Krishnamurthy, agreed. A 12-week virtual training schedule commenced, continents and time zones dividing us. Fearing failure, he didn’t tell anyone. Then, 4 a.m., in Memphis, we did the final 12-mile practice run together. He did 13 “just to be sure.” A week later, Dad tearfully yet jubilantly proclaimed to the paramedic, at the finish line, “I never dreamed I could, but I borrowed faith. That’s a daughter’s love.” — Sumathi Misra
Ripe, Wild Spaces
Our son used to wake up screaming from nightmares. We had to chase him around the apartment, convincing him we weren’t monsters. Our second born, who uses they/them pronouns, slept in our bed every night, starfishing their body between us. My husband and I didn’t think we’d ever be alone again. Now that our children are nearly teenagers, nights look different. We hold each other’s gaze, sip evening cocktails and have quiet bathtub conversations. I fall asleep with his warm hand on my back, his body connected with mine. We are growing into the wild spaces that once pushed us apart. — Alexis Barad-Cutler
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