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Tiny Love Stories: ‘She Noticed His Stylish Shoes’

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3 months ago

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1965, Calcutta. My 22-year-old mother had rejected several promising suitors who met the requirements of caste and class. “Meet this next one,” her mother begged. “Please. He’s come from Geneva, Switzerland.” En route to a party, Mother quickly dismissed the prospective bridegroom waiting on her family’s sofa. But in her brief, perfumed passage through the living room, she noticed his stylish shoes. And his smile. She agreed to see him again. My father was sweet, gentle. Two weeks after meeting, they married. Then, they flew to Geneva, where they’ve lived more or less happily ever after for 59 years. — Savita Iyer Ahrestani

“Does this mean you want to become a man?” my mother asked me in 2002 when she met my partner, Rachel, a transgender woman. Mom insisted on calling Rachel “he” and “him,” and banned us from her home. With time, Mom’s heart softened toward Rachel. They shared interests — gardening, sewing, antiques — and Mom saw how much my sons loved her. At Mom’s last visit to our house, she wheeled up behind Rachel, pulled her down to eye level, and said, “Who would have thought we’d have gotten along so well?” In less than a month, Mom was gone. — Janet Rubeck Shingleton

I tended to my father’s ventilator after his heart surgery and again during his eight-day coma, when it was unclear whether he would live. When he awoke, I calmed him with talk of his favorite river. We waited-waited-waited for the doctors to yank the alien tube from his mouth, hoping he would breathe again on his own. Finally, he sucked in a wheezy breath, like a newborn. For years our love was complex: I ran away at 17; we grieved my brother’s suicide; we struggled to heal. But when my father inhaled, it was simple. — Lisa Cooper Ellison

Holding our breath, sitting on opposite ends of a long table, we warily sized each other up like two mother hens. Our children were in love. I adored her daughter; she adored my son. But would we like each other? Maine and Connecticut. Would there be a power struggle over the holidays? The next time we got together, Marie blurted with her Swedish-tinted accent, “Thank God you’re normal.” I threw my head back and laughed! This was going to be fun. Making new friends at our age is rare. Two mothers-in-law becoming best buddies — scarcer than hen’s teeth. — Connie Ottmann

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