‘I Cried Because I Knew’
We met at my second A.A. meeting. Christy winked at me when I walked in late to my third. At the fourth, we held hands during the closing prayer. I cried because I knew. I drove home to my husband and three children (one still in diapers). Sobriety was my last-ditch effort to figure out what was “wrong” with me. I told my husband that I was gay. Pain followed, but life suddenly made sense. Seven years later, we co-parent along with our incredible wives. Christy and I are still sober, and her wink still makes me swoon. — Julia Ruiz Hoffman
Dark Wood and Dairy Queen
I remember the dark wood and white marble of Philadelphia’s family court, where my mother became my sole guardian. I remember her plate often held far less food than mine, though she was twice my size. I remember helping search for candles when the electricity went out and eating tuna sandwiches when the gas stove was not an option. But I also remember our long car rides filled with laughter, the air from the open windows rushing across our overheated skin, the coins we carefully collected in the console for a sweet treat at Dairy Queen. — Laura Canty-Samuel
The Past as an Asset
On our first date, Ed said, “I love thrift stores.” The throwaway comment told me he wasn’t afraid of something with a history. Later, he texted a photo of his favorite find, a 1970s coffeepot. “Percolators brew the best coffee,” he said. “It recirculates over the grounds so it’s extra rich.” Some men look at widows and see ghosts. They consider our hearts to be secondhand. Not Ed. He leaned in and embraced the richness of my past, and I became optimistic about my future. — Stephanie Vozza
The Prettiest Talk
My grandmother used to say, “Talk pretty talk.” The active-voice version of “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t bother.” Her great-grandson Georgie has never said a word. Instead, he speaks with his left hand, moving it constantly. He gives high-fives, massages his contorted right hand, rubs his index finger across his lips while blowing raspberries. Once, though, he kept it perfectly still. He was 16. His sister, my daughter, was dying of cancer. At her bedside, he placed his hand over hers and held it there. Death briefly retreated. To me, it was the prettiest talk. — Katie Seigenthaler
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