“Did I mention how she was kind of mean even when we were friends and I was always a little unsure if I could trust her, and some part of me was always concerned that maybe I should have run away as fast as I could in the opposite direction before she stabbed me while I was looking away? When it’s time to, you let them go.”
“We began frantically looking in the houseboat, in cupboards, under beds. I called out his name, begging him to stop playing games, hoping he was just playing hide ‘n’ seek. Looking over the river, it was so calm, but you couldn’t see a thing under the surface – it was just too murky. My mom came to the realization that my father needed to be called, to be told his son is missing. ‘It’s going to be okay; we are going to be okay,’ my mom repeated, trying to put on a brave face.”
“On my flight, I sat next to a father and his autistic son. Before it even took off, there was screaming, hitting, grabbing. The father repeatedly apologized, but did little else. He warned it would be a difficult flight. ‘Not to worry.’ I had experience with minimally verbal kiddos. By the end of it, his son was changed.”
“Every special occasion, my mom would make us our favorite pie. For my dad, it was lemon meringue. She always fretted until Daddy’s pie was made. She’d carry it, he’d make a big production, hug her and smack his lips. When I was 24, my mom passed away. As my Dad’s birthday approached, I began to fret. I went to the grocery store to find the ingredients, looking up and down every aisle. Later, I made a way to my Dad’s house to unveil the loveliest pie I’d ever made.”
“I was scared when you left today. I was surrounded with hugs and everyone telling me how you finally made it home. I was happy for you, but I just miss you and I needed you here to tell me it’s all going to be okay. You are the only one who can help make it okay.”
“They come from a really, really hard place. The kind of abuse you think can’t be real. They duck for cover. You’ve heard of fight or flight? There is also freeze. One of my kids responds with ‘freeze.’ Her eyes grow wide and her voice silences. It’s how she’s trained herself to survive. My kids need to know you are safe.”
“My father took his own life when I was 5 years old. I remember sitting on our front porch, hugging my mom as the paramedics wheeled him out of the house. I remember living at my grandparents’ house for a while after ‘he left.’ My family decided to keep what happened a secret. I continued to believe what my mom would tell me.”
“At first, his question confused me. I quickly glanced at my no makeup face and, instantly, I saw the ‘lines’ he was referring to. ‘Those lines on mommy’s head are called wrinkles. They’re proof mommy is living a great, blessed life.’ My wrinkles are certainly not my finest accessories. But my 4-year-old teaches me so much with his innocent questions.”
“There were still no legs. All I could picture were two tiny baby legs floating around in my belly with our baby girl. ‘No,’ she said. ‘They didn’t fall off. They just never grew.’ They laid her on my chest. ‘She’s here, she’s okay,’ we said through tears of joy. Our beautiful girl was here. All I could think was that we’d be able to go get mani-pedi’s together when she was older; but you better believe I’m not paying full price for one hand and two toenails!”
“I was put on a plane and sent to the live with them. I assume it was easier to ship me off then to actually address the dysfunction I was surrounded in. The divorce had sent my mother into a tailspin and when she wasn’t out partying, she was suicidal. My father did his best, but with his newfound freedom and new girlfriend, no one really wanted me. All my fears had been confirmed.”
