Anxious Affection
My mother’s love language was worry. An anxious woman, she believed panic was a form of protection. “It’s what you don’t see coming that gets you,” she said, searching out the unlikeliest dangers. If a plane crashed 10 states away, she’d scan her mental Rolodex: Which cousin might have been going to Ohio or Nevada? Years of therapy later, I have learned to keep worry at bay (somewhat). I remind myself that worry as a means of security is magical thinking. And that you can love someone without staring sleeplessly at shadows at 4 a.m. It works (sometimes). — Jilann Picariello
Committed Comedians
Steve and I met at a club in Los Angeles, both comedians chasing fame. I was 23, fresh from Canada. When my visa expired, I asked Steve to marry me. We were both gay, so it was a perfect union. We spent years together traveling the road, navigating one-night stands and sharing our truths. In 2001, Steve contracted AIDS and moved home to Virginia. I visited him often. Watching him deteriorate was unbearable. He passed away in the spring of 2014. To some, it was just a green-card marriage. To us, it was a faithful, lifelong friendship. — Lois Bromfield
Cycle of Care
When my father was a college student and moved from Karachi to California, his father wrote him letter after letter that could be collected only at the post office. When my father told his father that his shoes were getting worn out by walking to and from the post office, his father promptly airmailed him a package. Inside the box: new shoes. Luckily, I’m a 45-minute drive away from my father, not a daylong flight. Yet, the cycle of care packages continues. For me, he will deliver steaming soup, my favorite books and box upon box of sweet mango juice. — Reem Faruqi
Guilty as the Ghost
The first time he ghosts you, you are 16, your sincere messages left unanswered on a flip phone. The second time he ghosts you, you are 18, waiting three hours by Newcastle, England’s towering monument until you realize he won’t show. The third and final time he ghosts you, you are almost 30, incredulous that he has changed so little and mad that you — apparently — haven’t grown out of this pattern either. Here’s the secret about people who fall for serial ghosters: You are just as guilty as they are, believing their false apologies to be true. — Francesca Willow
