Addiction and Forgiveness
“You’re lucky I didn’t just abort you,” my mother said. I was 25, in medical school. I had reminded her that she was welcome at my wedding, if sober. She wasn’t. So she wasn’t invited. Her words hurt, but didn’t surprise me. I’d long been the grown-up in our relationship. What did shock me was what I felt years later when my daughter was born and placed on my chest: a depth of love that rewrote everything. In that sacred moment, I forgave my mother — not her words, but the addiction that uttered them. I was free. And loved. — Dympna Lynch Weil
Reframing Bad Luck
I had just started dating a man I liked when I had a run of bad luck. My parked car suffered a hit and run. I twisted my foot, breaking a bone. Then my sheepdog ate rat poison. Thankfully, my dog survived. However, my budding relationship did not. The optics were admittedly bad. I seemed like a train wreck, someone needing constant care. Yet, by the time my car got fixed, I was walking again. As a widow who raised two teens alone, I can handle almost anything. If resilience were sexy, I’d be hot. — Margo F. Newman
A Wild but Cautious Love
We were colleagues in 1970s New York. I don’t know why she loved me, so young and foolish. To me she seemed like a deer: wild but cautious, bold but elusive. She was in a relationship. I was less than half her age. We kept our romance secret. When we realized it was time to separate, we bought rings to — what? Remember that we had loved? As consolation for what we were losing? We did not stay in touch. Forty-five years later, I visited her before she died. She was still wearing her ring. She had never taken it off. — Pamela McClain
Holding On to Let Go
We marked Akash’s firsts with joy: first tooth, first steps, first words. Milestones etched in memory. But no one tells you about the lasts: the last sticky kiss, the final snuggle before sleep, the last bedtime story. They slipped away before I knew to notice. At age 12, our boy had entered adolescence. Yet, in fleeting moments, he would still reach for our hands, out of habit or need, each touch, maybe the last. I caught one of those precious moments on camera — a memory I hold close, even as so much of parenting means learning to let go. — Susan Chan Desai
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