My Unwritten Chapter
Before she died at 42, my wife suggested I marry her colleague, Sandee. “There are chapters yet unwritten in your life,” she said. Sitting shiva shortly before Hanukkah, I first met Sandee as my son played with toys at my feet. A year later, on our second date, I told her about my wife’s idea. She thought I was kidding. Two years later, we stood beneath a wedding canopy. For our 10th anniversary, I planned on dedicating a sapling to Sandee in our town’s park. When she found out, she altered the inscription. It now honors my late wife. — Barry E. Lichtenberg
Outpacing My Expectations
I told the shirtless, bearded lawyer on Grindr: “Meet me under the bridge at 5 a.m. before my group run.” I didn’t think he would show up on that hot summer morning in Dallas, but he did. I didn’t think he would be able to keep up with my running group, but he was the fastest among us. I also didn’t think I would be interested in him, but I couldn’t help but admire his speed, his cute smirk. Now, that shirtless, bearded lawyer is my fiancé. He still runs every morning, but I don’t. I love him, not running.— Quenton McClure
A Delayed Gift
In my 20s, I was glad to meet my biological mother who had given me up for adoption. But I was unable to overcome feelings of abandonment. We fought. After 10 years without contact, I called her. She told me about spending Christmas at an unwed mothers’ home while pregnant with me. The staff asked what she wanted for Christmas. “Chanel No. 5 perfume,” she said. They mocked her, then gave her socks instead. I softened and sent her the perfume, which arrived on Christmas Eve. On her card, I wrote: “You deserved this then and you deserve it now.” — Jessica Reed
Our Messes
“This place is a mess,” my father said in a stern voice, surprising me as he looked around the room. “Are you going to clean it?” Not sure how to respond, I simply said, “Yes.” He nodded, then strode out of my childhood bedroom on his cane, forgetting that he was elderly, that I had grown up and moved out decades earlier, that he was the one who had made the mess. You can’t go back to the past. But my father’s dementia briefly let me relive a moment from the 1960s, when I was his little girl. — Lisa Braxton
