Juanita’s Last Laugh
“Oh, dear,” my aunt murmured when my grandmother’s gravestone arrived. We had chosen a loving inscription, “Nunca nos olvidaremos de ti,” but the engraver forgot the word “nunca,” so the epitaph read, “We will forget you.” My grandmother, Juanita, would have rolled over in her tomb, laughing until she cried. When she was 17, she ran away from an abusive home, forging a new life for herself and her descendants. Despite the darkness of her past, she loved to laugh and crack jokes. Maybe this was her final jest — because there’s no way we will ever forget her. — Reni Roxas
A Monkey, Nearly a Miracle
I was only 7, but my brain had learned to loop around the same fear: my family and me being murdered. My therapist’s solution was a stuffed monkey — cream-colored, beady-eyed, wearing a red satin bow tie like he was taking me to dinner. He couldn’t check the locks, but he gave me something to hold besides my fear. He saw me through breakdowns, breakups, break-ins that never came, college, first jobs, an O.C.D. diagnosis I was grateful to name. Now he sits in my son’s room, fur gone to felt, guarding a new kid who’ll never know what he saved. — Shira Hoffman
Getting Into Gear
I noticed Ellen walking up a hill on a hot June day. She smiled as my dog charged downhill like a torpedo, dragging me along behind. I glanced back. To my delight, I saw Ellen turn and watch me. Electricity, panic. How to woo her? An unconventional idea hit me: You never forget the person who taught you to drive stick shift. I manufactured a conversation about cars and offered to teach her. She smiled and said yes. Soon, we found ourselves on that hill again — bucking, stalling, rolling backward, laughing. The beginning of everything, 25 years ago. — Rose Sullivan
Love in an Empty Dishwasher
I was 39 the first time I fully emptied a dishwasher. (My later-in-life A.D.H.D. and autism diagnoses led me to medication, which made completing tasks easier.) When I told my husband, Brandon, about the dishwasher, he said: “I’ve always known you struggle with finishing. That’s why I close the cupboards.” I realized, then, that for 17 years, Brandon has quietly walked behind me, shutting cupboards, putting caps back on creamers, emptying nearly empty dishwashers. Not once did he criticize me or complain. He simply completed what I couldn’t. — Tara Capps
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