immediate family
Blood makes you related, loyalty makes you family.
Riley's Gift
The story about Riley’s $20,000 fortune has been told for generations across her lineage. It all started with her being her aunt Leah’s caretaker as she battled stage 4 colon and lung cancer. Riley’s grandmother Lidia was the twin sister of her aunt Leah, and although she was Riley’s great aunt, she was very close to her. Riley would visit her aunt every day and bring her food to eat, run errands for her, and even take her to doctor appointments. Her aunt became so sick that she rarely wanted home cooked meals, but she wanted the convenience and luxury of eating various fast-food items that she craved.
By Briana Harbour6 years ago in Families
Book of Travels
Mellie reached up and brushed a lock of hair off her forehead and squinted at the page she was reading. Glancing up, she blinked and realized that she was having difficulty seeing the words because the sun was beginning its timely descent into a dusky evening sky. "Gosh," she thought, "It's getting pretty late and I'm never going to finish this tonight!" Glancing down, she smiled at her new puppy gently snoring in her pink fuzzy bed. "Well," Mellie thought, "Someone has decided to take a break!" Reaching down she tickled the pup's furry ear. It twitched but the snoring continued being clearly worn out by the day's efforts. Mellie was just happy that she had been quiet and not underfoot as she usually was when work was being done.
By Jennie Dial6 years ago in Families
Goldendale
The sun is peering through the curtains as the smell of bacon drifts through the air. Squinting the sleep from my eyes I roll over, not ready to leave the warmth of my blankets. I can hear the pitter-patter of a busy kitchen below me as I struggle to hang on to the memory of last night's dream.
By Mia Janaé Carmickle6 years ago in Families
It's No Inverted Jenny
There is an unmistakable smell that tends to attach itself to old houses. A bit of musty charm with a hint of aging wood and perhaps some remnants of “old-lady” perfume had settled itself to this particular house. With a strong side of mothballs.
By Kelly Hodges6 years ago in Families
before and after
My father died on a rainy Tuesday night. As I sat in his room and listened to his breath slow to its eventual end, I counted the raindrops as they beaded on the window. He was all I had in the world and then he was gone. It seemed so uncomplicated.
By Melissa Mascara6 years ago in Families
Coming home
Saum's tight grip had left an imprint on on her black leather book. The once shining, and firm black exterior had born the brunt of many years of crying and nostalgia as Saum sought comfort in it's contents during the 6 years she spent training and working as a nurse in London's grey haze. Now, the greying, wrinkled book cover was bearing the brunt of weeks of excitement. Saum was standing in an immigration line at Salisbury airport. She could hear the cheers, and ululating of relatives reuniting for the first time in a decade. No-one would be waiting for her outside the doors, she didn't have enough to write to her relatives to let them know of her unexpected return. They wouldn't be expecting her for another 4 years, when she finally attained permanent residency and could leave the UK without the concern of not being approved a visa to return.
By nyasha tsimba6 years ago in Families
Inheritance
It’s been eight years since my father died and as I stand here by this by this beautiful loch, the memories of it all dance across my mind, as fresh and real as the grass beneath my feet. It’s been eight years since he passed and eight years since he left me alone in an attic picking up the pieces that would change my life forever. I stood there in the empty eerie silence and began to pack up what remained of my father’s life. The boxes quickly began to pile up, until all that remained was one last shelf of books and an old ornate writing desk. My father loved to read, he would get lost in the worlds created in the pages of his books, he would always tell me of the adventures we could go on just by turning a page. Lost in the memories and sadness of his passing, I sat down to pack the last shelf. Amongst the books on this shelf was a small black notebook, hidden behind some larger books. At first glance there was nothing special about it and as I casually leafed through it, I realised a few of the pages didn’t make any sense, but in my haste to finish and get out I tossed it into the draw of the old writing desk and forgot about it. Once I finished packing the rest of the boxes and I headed downstairs and arranged to have a few bits of furniture, including the old writing desk to be delivered to my small Melbourne apartment.
By Amelia Ngavisi6 years ago in Families
