T.L.J. 2.0
Tondea and I had a sweet, tender love until we didn’t. In 2015, we married “for life” — or so we thought. We called ourselves “T.L.J.”: our initials, held closely like a talisman, which we monogrammed on everything — towels, totes, duvets, wedding bands. Deeply entwined, we were happiest when it was just the two of us. But, eventually, our personal insecurities grew into demons, obstructing our love. We divorced. It was during this time of being broken that we could separately mend ourselves and then come back to each other, as a stronger, healthier union of T.L.J. — Lesleyjill Coward
Neither Santa Nor Rudolph
This summer, I bought a hands-free dog leash for running that attaches to my dog on one end and my waist on the other. It turns out that “hands-free” does not mean trouble-free. When my dog, Coco, runs ahead, I feel like Santa. When she lags, I feel like Rudolph. We are a comedy of errors. But halfway along our route, there is a downhill straightaway where our errors end. We run side by side, picking up speed. I burst into a goofy grin. And when Coco turns to me, midstride, with sparkling eyes, I’m sure she is smiling, too. — Amy Mendillo
Bill’s Hand
A candlelight dinner for our eighth anniversary. A stroll along the Pacific. Later, in bed, his finger found a small lump on my breast. His brow furrowed. I was lost in the moment. Over morning coffee: “You should get it checked.” I waved my hand. I’m only 30. Asian American women don’t get breast cancer, I thought. Three weeks later, as I lay on a gurney, Bill’s hand clasped mine, and he whispered, “I love you.” Thirty-six years later, with our three grown children living their own lives, I look at him and remember how he saved mine. — Yvonne Liu
Another Postcard to Mom
My mother saw something in me that teachers and counselors couldn’t — or wouldn’t. Decades before the term “neurodiversity” was coined, my mom, using her skills as a pioneering female reporter at Time and Life, researched dyslexia. Together, we read everything: cereal boxes, comics, short obituaries. She’d buy vintage postcards, and we’d write stories for each other inspired by their images. Her hack worked, so much so that I followed her into journalism. Mom, you were the most creative and impactful editor I’ve ever had. Now that you’ve passed, I promise to keep my eye out for another postcard, another message. — James Cooper
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