A Fateful Crosswalk
“Why don’t you have a girlfriend?” my younger brother asks. “Everyone thinks you’re gay.” Panic consumes 14-year-old me. I pray and hear: “Find a girlfriend.” I date the most popular girl in high school until I graduate in 1983. The homophobia of that time leaves a deep scar, and I spend my life healing it. Dozens of ill-fated relationships with guys ensue. After I give up on love at 45, I pass a man in a crosswalk who asks, “Leaving so soon?” I reply: “What do you want to know? I’m single.” We’ve been together 14 years. Hope springs eternal. — Michael Hauser
In the Wake of Him, Her
My 37-year-old brother married Priscilla three weeks before a bicycle accident took his life. They had been together for a while, but, because of the pandemic, I didn’t know her well. In the wake of his death, we worked side by side, making impossible decisions and caring for what was left in his absence. We cry a lot. We also laugh. She could have been a stranger I never met. Instead, she became my sister, my brother’s last gift to me. Grief gave us a terrible beginning. Love makes it last. — Stephanie Springer
Simmering After 37 Years
He orders a new TV remote, unclogs the toilet, pays our daughter’s car insurance. Not the passion of staying in bed all day in our 20s. Nor the excitement of buying our first house. Or riding gondolas in Venice. It’s more like a hearty, slow-cooked meal. He shares our daughter’s Instagram post. We plan her college graduation party. Relish her professor’s help getting her a job. Love after 37 years. It does not boil over. Rather, it’s steady as it simmers. — Kerry Leonard Paone
Wrong to Scoff
My boyfriend is happiest in the kitchen. A former chef, he moves with confidence and precision — whisking and chopping, tasting and sautéing, all while cursing under his breath at microscopic “mistakes” made along the way, errors a cereal-minded woman like me would never notice. We recently made potato gnocchi together. As always, he sent me home with a doggie bag. I scoffed at his detailed cooking instructions. This man really thinks I can’t boil water? I ignored his warnings and ended up with mashed potatoes. Like the gnocchi, his instructions were made with consideration and care. Sorry, honey! — Sophie Bramnick
