Fashion
Tiny Love Stories: ‘Like an Old Song We Can’t Stop Singing’
Finding the Fun
Mom, a former physicist, had a hard day with her dementia. She opened Zoom two hours early, asking repeatedly when her prayer meeting would begin. Realizing her mistake, she slumped on her bed and started to cry. “It’s not fun anymore,” she said, meaning life. I made us coffee and sat down to comfort her. “It’s OK, Mom. You’re my best friend.” She stared at me. I stared back, thinking we were having a tender moment. She gave a sly smile and quipped, “Too bad for you!” Meaning I’m a loser. We burst out laughing. Life was still fun. — Anna Dahland Kim
A Simple Question
Parked outside his apartment, I squeezed Karl’s hand a little tighter and stared straight ahead. The cold air hung heavy with silence. I had just told the boy I was deeply in love with that I could no longer be his girlfriend — because I could no longer be a girl. I was exhausted; the months of fear and pretending had taken their toll. No matter how badly I wanted him, I needed to be me. Eventually, I gained enough courage to look over at Karl. His face pressed with concern, he asked, “But, can I still be your boyfriend?” — Benji Patwardhan
Complicated Uncoupling
He snores loudly in the bedroom above mine, the buzz of 25 years together, now unraveling. We’re in that strange in between, separated but still beneath the same roof, “lawyered up” but amicable. He stays in his room, I in mine, but the house still hums with echoes of what was. We argue over money, parenting our two children and mismatched power dynamics. Yet, on Friday night dinners out together, I hear it: “Honey.” The word lingers, familiar, warm like an old song we can’t stop singing. Old habits don’t die easily, even when love has one foot out the door. — Lisa Liu Grady
The Kids Are All Right
Tucking my daughters in, I asked, “How did I get so lucky to be your mom?” Usually my youngest would shrug, but this night, for whatever reason, she said, “You went through something really hard to get to something really good.” I had never mentioned the darker parts of my childhood to her. She couldn’t have known, but the scene I’d revisited in therapy earlier that day happened when I was exactly her age: a violent fight between my mother and father that left me terrified. Now, my daughter’s 6-year-old self hugged my 6-year-old self, both of us safe and lucky, indeed. — Liz McDaniel
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Tiny Love Stories: ‘Like an Old Song We Can’t Stop Singing’
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