Stories in Families that you’ll love, handpicked by our team.
“What language do you speak at home?” “Just English,” I reply apologetically, emphasizing the "just," hoping the topic will change.
Through The Eyes Of My Child
When I began working from home and building my business, I worried just like any parent about its effect on my children. A known helicopter mom and minor hypochondriac, I didn't let them far from arms reach. Without my focus completely on them, I was curious as to how we would manage. Without a bubble-wrapped room and a maid at our beck and call, I assumed it would be disastrous.
The recurring death
The death of any loved one is difficult and healing can be hindered by simply taking care of business. I vaguely experienced this with my mother and my grandmother but it's almost unbearable now that my husband has died. We spent 45 years together which is 5 years shy of being half a century. He has only been gone about 3 weeks but it feels like an eternity. Each time I believe I am having a good day something happens that causes me to feel as if he has just died all over again. It feels like smooth sailing and then waves crashing down over and over again taking my breath away before they subside.
- Second Place in Sister Circle Challenge
In the Times Of Xenophobia
Dear Mama Anita, Mama, when we came here first, the language was the hardest part wasn't it? You practiced for hours, head bent over my borrowed laptop watching videos and old CDs. I remember the trips to the libraries, where you painstakingly selected the best books, and audiotapes and copied word for word pages upon pages of the mysterious English language.
Dancing On Corpses with Imaginary Friends
The stench of a funeral home has unforgettably stuck with me. Each one smells identically of rotting flesh, formaldehyde, and dying floral arrangements. The first time that smell gripped my nostrils was six days before my fifth birthday. My father made his way back to our home after leaving me with my Granny. His veins were racing with a Molotov cocktail of cocaine, Jim Beam, and rage. A mere hour behind him, my mother arrived home after a Sunday morning shift at the grocery store deli she worked part-time at to support my father's drinking and driving habits. She inserted her key into the front door, turned the worn brass handle, and stepped in through the storm door as she did every other afternoon. This step wasn’t like the others. My mother looked up to a black revolver staring at her forehead, my father’s dead eyes staring from behind it. His demons overtook him that day, convincing him to grab a handgun, usually stowed away in a small red toolbox in the back of his garage, and destroy everything in its path. It was in my mother's blood to fight, and as I was wholly unaware, slumped on my Granny's couch unable to help her, she did exactly that. She fought for her life. My father was still present somewhere deep inside the demon’s grasp, and in a final gracious gesture, sacrificed himself. After a struggle, the gun must've pulled back and turned on the evil that overtook him. I imagine that there was a glimmer of the man we had once known but hadn't seen in so long, looking back into my mother's eyes as a final selfless apology. His last bit of light pulled the trigger, and the gun fired. All of our worlds, and everything we had all known, simultaneously fell crashing onto the floor.
To My Girls
To my girls, The assignment is to write an open letter to the strongest woman I know. But how can I choose just one when each of you is so incredible?
A Grand Dad
Before I knew what trans was, let alone that I was trans, you could easily say that I was a Daddy’s Girl. Except for one small fact- I didn’t consider myself someone who HAD a dad until after I lost him.
It wasn’t until I started traveling a lot that I began experiencing flight anxiety. Tucked into a snug window seat, I found myself at ease; excited to see my family who I knew would be waiting for me when I landed.
Stories My Grandfather Told Me
My grandfather passed away in September of 2020. His friends called him “Jimmy” while others liked “James.” But I always called him Papa. Before his passing, my sister’s and I rotated in shifts during the height of the pandemic to make sure he was not escaping his home to hangout with his friends. He often enjoyed walking around his neighborhood to socialize. My grandfather encompassed the phrase “social butterfly.” But he had been diagnosed with dementia and needed someone to remind him that he could not leave his house, that he needed to take his medication, and that he needed to exercise. But while I was making sure he took his daily dose of medication, he liked to tell me stories of his life. And just like any nugget of wisdom you could receive from your therapist, in books, in movies, from friends and more, the stories my grandfather told me have improved my life tenfold.
- Created with: Plant Camp
How One Busy Mom Makes Time for Family Dinner
As a mom of four girls that range in age from seven years old to four weeks old I can certainly tell you how fast the time goes. I often wonder where the time has gone and how I could possibly be the mother of a seven year old already! I’m constantly questioning the decisions I am making as a parent - did I spend enough time with each of them today, did I use the right words to make them feel good, did I give their bodies the right amount of nutrients for energy and growth and the list goes on and on. Parenthood is a crazy ride and until about one year ago I was letting it fly by without realizing it.
Beth hesitated as she reached for the front door. Her hand shook, heart beating a bit faster. Damnit. Teeth clenched, Beth stepped out of the line of sight from the front door and pressed herself against the wall. She hated coming home.
It was a rainy evening as Ellen wiped down the counter of her empty dumpling shop, thirty minutes before closing. Another slow night. Her son lay on his stomach behind the counter, drawing, where he always was during his mother’s evening shifts.