“I felt like I had to prove something to my parents.

I’d gone

to art school without their approval, and I wanted to show

them that I’d made the right choice. So I overworked myself

in every possible way. I tried to qualify for scholarships every

year. I did little side jobs, and volunteer work, and lots of

extracurricular activities. I actually enjoyed being so busy,

even though it was exhausting. It made me feel alive. Like I

was growing. And building myself. And moving forward. I felt

like I wasn’t a loser in the race. I was keeping toward the

front. But the whole time my body was deteriorating. It

started with being tired all the time. Then I began to lose

weight. Then little illnesses: a cold, the flu, digestive

problems. I was carrying pills with me all the time. Then last

year I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. It was curable, and

the surgery went well, but for the first time I was forced to

think about dying. I always thought I wasn’t afraid of death.

But before my surgery, I was scared. I realized that I didn’t

want to die. I’m too young to die. So I right now I’m taking a

break from life. I just want to get healthy. I’ve moved back in

with my parents, and my plan this year is to have no plan. No

obligations. No self-improvement. Nothing. It hasn’t been

completely peaceful. There are moments when I feel anxious.

Like I’m standing still. And the world is going on without me.

And everyone else is doing something: studying, earning

money, building a career. But I’m not. I’m just here.”

“Nobody would give us a chance. We were in our early

twenties. We had two young kids. We were working, but

living check to check. At the time we were staying in the

projects with my mother-in-law, but my kids were growing

up, so we needed our own place. But all the rental brokers

wanted to see our bank statements. And we had no savings.

We didn’t even have accounts. Then one day I was walking

down the avenue, and I saw a super fixing up an empty

apartment. I told him I needed to speak to the landlord

directly. No brokers. And I guess he liked my vibe, because

he gave me the name: Ronald Petrowski. When I called Mr.

Petrowski, I explained everything. I told him we needed a

chance. He agreed to meet me and my husband at Lenny’s

Pizzeria. He bought us a plain pie and listened to our story.

He’d grown up poor himself, so he knew the struggle. And

he gave us a chance. We’ve been in that apartment for 35

years now, and I’ve paid him every cent. We’ve fallen on

hard times. At one point I owed him an entire year of rent.

But he was so gracious. He never sent us an eviction notice.

Every time he came to collect, he’d sit at our kitchen table,

have a cup of coffee, and listen to our situation. Mr.

Petrowski is my hero. He sold the building a couple years

ago, but we still keep in touch. That man gave me a home to

raise my children.”
“All of the young people are leaving. You have to say

‘goodbye,’ over and over again. One of my best friends went

to Chile. Another went to Spain. Another went to Argentina

to earn money for her mother’s cancer treatment. My

brother left five years ago. And now I’m gone too. Before I

came to New York, I went to pick up some paperwork at my

university. We used to have ten classrooms full of people.

Now half of them are empty. There are some people who

choose to stay. I have a cousin that swears he’ll never leave.

He says that there’s a chance things will work out. But that’s

very rare for someone our age. The grown-ups stay because

they have their whole lives in Venezuela: maybe not their

jobs anymore, but their houses and their cars. But the young

people want opportunities. I want to be a designer. But since

there aren’t any design jobs, I’d have to be a freelancer. But

that’s also silly. Because nobody has money for art or design.

Everyone needs their money for necessities. So I’d be forced

to take a job outside my career. Anything I could get. And

that’s why I left. Either you stay in Venezuela and make the

decisions you have to. Or you leave and make the decisions

you want to.”

“I just feel like I should be doing better. I’m nowhere near

retirement. I’m working two jobs: I’m a licensed tour guide,

and I make videos for businesses. But I’m ashamed of it.

Because I’m sixty-five years old, I'm a college graduate, and

I’m supposed to be done by now. I'm supposed to be

coasting. But I’m not even close. I feel like I still don’t even

have a grip on the basics: how to make a living, how to keep

my house in order, how to take care of myself. And it feels

shameful. I feel not grown up. Like I should have learned all

of this so long ago. And I’m afraid people will think it’s

pathetic. Worse than that. They’ll think I’m incapable. So I’ve

been keeping a lot hidden. I’m luckier than 99 percent of

people. I’ve been sober for 39 years. I have the greatest wife
of 32 years. I don't have any crippling debt. I'm doing OK. I

shouldn’t have to hide my situation. And being more open

has helped. Because once I start telling people, and I see

they’re not judging me, and that they’re still loving me-- the

shame tends to disappear.”

"I'd just started grad school in Tennessee. I was a little lonely,

so I might have been looking for some familial bonds. But I

actually got the idea from an episode of West Wing. One of

the main characters was a Big Brother. So I did a quick

Google search, and found that the East Tennessee chapter

was one of the strongest in the country. What really

prompted me to join was learning that the little brother list is

much longer than the little sister list. The organization gave

me a personality test, and I got matched with Brandon. He

was extremely shy. I had no idea what to do. In the beginning

there was a lot of silence. And whenever he did talk, I’d just

say: ‘I get that, I get that.’ After a few days of that, he told

me: ‘Thanks for trying to get me.’ Soon Brandon became my

best friend in Knoxville. And I think I shared that title for a

little while-- until he got older and met more friends. Food

was a big part of our friendship. We always went to

Shoney’s. I still have a picture of the first time we went. He

filled half his plate with red jello, and the other half with

chicken nuggets. I focused a lot on his academics. I’m a big

school nerd, so that was my comfort zone. We did a lot of

homework together. I wasn’t aiming for him to get A’s. I was

just aiming for a feeling of progress. His improvement at

school was huge. He even got ‘The Turnaround Award’ in

8th Grade. That was such a big moment for both of us.

We've come a long way since then. Now we're looking for

the right college.”

“My mother came to New York from Alabama at the age of

nineteen. She had nothing but a high school diploma. She

almost didn’t make it. There was so much pressure because

she was all alone. Later in life she came clean. She told me

that she’d gotten so depressed that she turned on the gas

one night. But my brother and I started crying in the crib.

And she was so touched that she decided to keep going.

She became a nurse at Lenox Hill hospital. She was married

three times. Three sets of children. Each time her husband

claimed she wouldn’t make it without him. Each time she

said ‘Go on ahead.’ She taught us all the proverbs. She

taught us to love ourselves. The punishments could be harsh.

Sometimes she’d go at us with the extension cord. But I

always knew there was a steak dinner waiting for me at the

end. She was only hard on me because she wanted me to

succeed, which I never did. Thirty years on the street.

Twenty years addicted to crack. But she never gave up on

me. Even during the darkest times, whenever I showed up,

she’d open the door. She’d cook me a meal. She’d let me

get warm. She’d let me shower. But she’d never give me a

dime. And I always had to leave. But on the way out, she’d

always say: ‘I love you Freddy, no matter what you do.’ We

had ten good years together after I got clean. She’d come to

some of my programs. She’d tell me how proud she was that

I turned my life around. The last time I saw her, when she

was lying in the hospital, with one hundred percent cancer, I

kissed her forehead and told her I loved her. And she said: ‘I

love you Freddy.’ Those were her last words. Two days later

she passed. She didn’t wheeze, or sigh, or scream, or grunt.

She just went to sleep.”

“Drugs are ‘cunning, baffling, and powerful.’ They teach us

that in NA. Drugs can change your soul. I’ve seen it happen

to so many people. But through twenty years of crack

addiction, I always maintained my sense of self. I took so

many beatings from drug dealers. I had my skull fractured,

my nose broken, I lost an eye. I was shot twice with a 44

magnum at point blank range. But despite all these

afflictions, despite all that darkness, I was able to maintain

my sanity and self-respect. I’d never rape anyone. Wouldn’t

attack anyone. Would never rob with a gun or a knife.

Wouldn’t yell, or scream, or frighten people. That’s not who

I was. I never forgot my name. I never forgot my birthday. I

used to go to the library, and open the encyclopedia, and

memorize all the muscles and nerves and organs. I wanted to

document myself. I could always locate my sternohyoid. And

my thyrohyoid. I’ve always known my human worth. I think so

much of that came from my mother. There’s a word called

‘superego,’ and it means how you’re trained by your parents

and stuff like that. It’s the thing that guides you. I can still

hear my mother’s voice talking to me today. Telling me to

take care of myself. And to respect myself. Saying: ‘You’re a

good person, Frederick.’ That’s one thing she always did.

She always called me by my name. Even when I let her down.

Even when I stole from her. Even when the whole world was

ignoring me. She never called me ‘son.’ Never ‘boy.’ Never

‘idiot.’ She always called me Frederick. And she told me that

I'd always been a good person.”

“I’m running for congress. I’m actually on the way right now

to meet with some union representatives to ask for their

endorsement. The whole experience has been a whirlwind.

I’ve been working as a special education teacher for the

past eight years, so all of this is new to me. Fundraising is

definitely more soul-sucking than I expected it to be. I don’t

have many millionaires in my network, so it involves making

thousands of cold calls. Sometimes I can spend four hours

on the phone without making a single connection. I’m

running against an entrenched incumbent. And he’s been in

power for over thirty years, so he collects $2800 checks

without even asking. My only real chance is to expand the

electorate. Only ten percent of the people in my district even

voted during the last election. So I’ve been spending most of

my time in lower income communities, and communities of

color—speaking directly to them. These people are often

excluded from the conversation because it’s assumed they

don’t vote. But I’ll talk to anyone. About the military

industrial complex. About climate change. About the

school-to-prison pipeline. I just stand out on train platforms

during rush hour, and if somebody makes eye contact, I’m

going for it."

“My childhood was dominated by her stories: living in the

ghetto for two years, surviving off potato peels, running like

an animal from the Nazis. She was the only one who survived.

I have no grandparents. No aunts or uncles. Her entire family

was killed. We rose up from the ashes. And my mother

became a monster. She deprived us like she was deprived.

My brother and I were always made to feel like a burden.

Like we were leeching from her. There were no special

occasions. No birthdays. No cake. Everything was counted.

Everything was calculated. Whenever I asked for something,

I was made to feel responsible for World War II. She’d say: ‘I

didn’t survive Hitler to get you a bag of potato chips.’ She

never let me feel like we were in America. I felt like I was the
one wearing stripes. I’ve dreamed about Hitler since I was a

child. He tells me I’m a mistake. And that I should have been

killed. I remember when I grew older and started visiting the

houses of friends. I saw how their parents treated them.

How they were given gifts. And how they were loved. It felt

like I was crawling out of the sewer, after the war, and

learning that this entire time-- some people had been living

normal lives."

My mother died on July 6th, 2005. One day toward the end

of her life, we were in the subway together, carrying heavy

packages, and I could see she was exhausted. And for a

moment I felt her pain. I realized I could still love her. She

couldn’t love me, but I could love her. Despite all the abuse

she’d given me, I could feel her pain. I resurrected this old

photo after her death. She’s with her first husband. It was

weeks before he was taken away. She’s only twenty years

old in this picture. That gorgeous face. That youth. How

could I possibly hate her the same way? It’s unfathomable.

Not that she was right to be cruel, but it’s unfathomable

what she went through. I once helped her type a memoir to

get reparations from the Germans. At the end of her story,

she wrote: ‘It was a life of horror. Having lost everything and
everyone, I’d given up my struggle to live. And at that time, it

would have been easier if they had killed me.

It was a really toxic relationship. I think she’d agree with that.

We allowed each other to be depressed. We encouraged it,

actually- just to increase the dependency. We were together

24/7. Instead of pushing each other to be better, or get help,

we just stayed in bed all day long. We skipped our classes. I

failed out of school. Occasionally she’d break up with me,

and I’d be a mess, then a month later she’d be knocking on

my door. And I hate saying it out loud, because she was

suffering too, and I don’t want to make her seem like a bad

person. But she knew how to pick apart my insecurities. She

made me feel manipulative for needing help. She made me

feel like a terrible person. Like I just wanted attention. Since

I thought she was the only one who really knew me, I figured

it must be true. It got to the point where I didn’t feel worthy

of being around people who cared about me. So I kept away

from my family. Then I took their absence as proof they

didn’t care. Eventually I convinced myself that everyone

would be better off without me. One night I locked the door

of my bedroom, and swallowed an entire bottle of Ambien. A

few days later I woke up in the ICU (intensive care unit). My

whole family was there. My mom told me that if I’d died,

she’d never have been able to live with herself. My dad told

me that he’d dropped to his knees when he’d learned. I

guess that’s what it took to make it finally click. I’d spent so

much time convincing myself that nobody cared. If I’d have

only stepped out of that relationship, and leaned on those

people, I’d have learned how much they did.”

“I’m trying to start a company while raising a four year old

child. But my business partner is a mother too, so we’re very

supportive of each other. It’s a nice departure from the

corporate world-- where I think a lot of new mothers are

made to feel like they’re laying their foot off the gas. A lot of

it is nonverbal: having work taken away, or not being

included on important projects. But I also remember being

told that I ‘wasn’t being present’ at work. And that ‘my

husband needed to step up.’ My behavior did change when

my child was born. But for the better. I became more

efficient. For the first time I was able to set limits, and have

people recognize them. My limits never seemed valid before.

Exhaustion wasn’t valid. Mental health wasn’t valid. But

having a child gave me a firm reason to say ‘no.’ It’s not ‘no’

to working harder. It’s ‘no’ to excess. To not redoing

something twenty times when you have it on the first try. Or

creating thirty proposals because the boss would love to see

‘just one more,’ ‘just one more.’ It’s excess. And it’s almost

as bad as doing nothing. Because what is good gets lost in

the excess. I don’t have time for it anymore. I have to

recognize what’s most important. I don’t have time for

endless debate. I have to go straight to the source of the

problem, or my kid is going to pee her pants.”

“I just want to live under the same roof with my son and his

mom. We’re living apart right now while I look for a place we

can afford. But it’s been over two years now. It’s hard on our

relationship. I hardly ever get to see my son. I work at the

post office. That’s the ‘US Government.’ You think I’d be

able to find a place for us to live. But you go to a handful of

apartments, and you realize it’s all the same. They want

credit this. Background that. But that’s not even the issue

for me. It’s the rent. They expect your salary to be ten times

the price of rent. It’s like c’mon, man. Only a certain class of

people can afford that. You’re telling me who you want. And

it’s not me. I tried to go the affordable housing route. But

that’s a ‘wait list’ situation. I got one call back in three

years—and I made $300 too much. So apparently you have

to be dead poor or incredibly rich to find an apartment. We

even thought about going the shelter route. Just go all the

way under. Just to be together. But I didn’t want to risk it.

It’s not safe enough for my son. So I just throw up my hands.

It’s hard to know where to point the finger. It’s on me, I

guess. I've got to figure out how to make as much as

possible to provide the bare necessities. But I’ve tried

everything in my power. I’m not sure what else to do.”

“I had very little direction in life. I was twenty-four. I knew I

wanted to be an actress, but I couldn’t see a path. Even

though I’d been accepted to a drama school in New York, I

didn’t have enough money. I was living on a street in

Liverpool where everything had been boarded up. I was so

desperate that I decided to put a classified ad in a magazine

called ‘The Private Eye.’ Oh God, I was so naïve. The

advertisement said: ‘Talented young actress desperately

seeks funding to go to drama school. Happy to meet.’ Every

pervert in the city called me. One guy offered 30,000 pounds

to ‘do whatever he wanted’ for a weekend. Another wanted

‘discipline sessions,’ which I had to Google. When I

explained I wasn’t offering sex, people would shout at me on

the phone. They told me that nobody would give me

something for nothing. I felt stupid for even trying. After a

few days the phone went quiet. Then one afternoon I got a

call from a man with a very strong Irish accent. I could barely

understand him. He told me that he’d never bought that

magazine before. And that it all felt very strange-- but he

wanted to meet me for lunch. And that’s how I met Edmund.

He listened to my dreams, and my goals, and at the end of

the lunch, he agreed to pay for everything. Edmund has been

my biggest supporter ever since. He’s helped me fund a

short film. Right now he’s helping me produce a

documentary. And he’s never asked for anything. Nothing,

ever. He never crossed a single line. Edmund was very

successful in life. And he always dreamed of having a big

family. But he and his wife were never able to have their own

children. So he sees me a bit like his daughter. He’s

amazing.”
“It was just the three of us. And dad was a truck driver so he

was gone most of the time. It could be a lot of stress. My

mom was almost like a single mother. On my third birthday

we moved to a small house outside of Denver. Next door

there lived an older couple named Arlene and Bill, and they

started talking to me through the fence. My first memory is

Arlene handing me strawberries from her garden. It was a

wonderful connection. After a few months, I knocked on

their door, sat down in their living room, and said: ‘Will you

guys be my grandparents?’ It was so silly. They could have

laughed it off. But instead they started crying. They printed

out an adoption certificate and hung it on their living room

wall. That certificate remained until I left for college. They

became so important to me. Their house was a refuge. Bill

was the kind of grandfather that always smelled like oil. He

taught me to drive everything. He was always fixing stuff.

But he’d stop anything to sit down with me and have a glass

of tea. Arlene was the type of grandmother that loved crafts,

which was perfect for a kid. We were always putting tiny

sequins on things. Both of them supported me in all my

dreams. Through all my phases. They encouraged me to

apply for college, even though I didn’t have the money to go.

And when I got accepted, they presented me with a fund.

They told me they’d been putting away money since the day

I adopted them. Since I’ve become an adult, I’ve learned

more about my grandparents. They both grew up poor.

Arlene struggled with alcoholism when she was young, and

that’s why they never had children. Their lives weren’t as

perfect as they seemed through the fence. My grandmother

passed away in 2013. It was two days before our adoption

anniversary. My grandfather gave her eulogy. And at the end,

he said: ‘Arlene leaves behind her husband Bill. And the

greatest joy of her life-- her granddaughter Katie.’”

“Ever since I was a little girl, I’d been professing that I

wanted to be a doctor. But there weren’t any doctors in my

family. And we didn’t live in the nicest part of Brooklyn-- so

there weren’t even any doctors in my neighborhood. I was

fourteen years old when I met my first African American

female physician—Dr. Cambridge. It was just a fluke. I

needed to see a doctor, and I ended up at her office. But

meeting her was like God saying: ‘You can do this. This is

what you want, and it’s going to happen.’ It wasn’t easy. All

through school I worked the closing shift at McDonald’s. I

barely had time to study. I failed general chemistry during

my freshman year, and my advisor told me that I shouldn’t

pursue medicine. But people had been telling me that my

entire life. So I just never went back to her office. I figured

everything out on my own. I’d never even heard of an MCAT.

I had to learn all that on my own. I studied with old books

that people donated to me. But I was still working twenty

hours a week, so I only scored in the 19th percentile. I

applied to fifteen medical schools and all of them rejected

me. That’s when the depression set in. I'd lost $2200 on the

applications alone. But I pulled myself together. I kept going.

I enrolled in a Master’s program so I could prove that I was

capable of succeeding on a higher level. I took out student

loans. And for the first time—I was able to focus on my

schoolwork instead of surviving. I went into beast mode. I

was like a machine. I made my first ‘A’ ever in a higher

education course. And the next time I took the MCAT, I

scored in the 73rd percentile. When those results came in, I

was laying on the floor. I was crying. Because nobody knew

how hard I prayed for this. How hard I worked for this. So

hard. So, so hard. Only I knew. I did this all by myself.”

“Joe moved here from Texas almost four years ago. I think

he’d been living a pretty idyllic life-- nice house, nice family.

But shortly after arriving in Spokane, things began to unravel

for reasons outside of his control. Our homeless shelter was

looking for a new director at the time, and I was part of the

hiring team. Within thirty seconds of Joe walking through

the door—I thought: ‘This is our guy.’ He didn’t even wait for

a question. He knew all the statistics, and was full of ideas:

‘Spokane needs this, Spokane needs that.’ You could just

tell how much he cared. As soon as we hired him, he hit the

ground running. He was determined to open a 24/7 family

shelter before the snow started falling. Joe was the hardest

worker I’d ever seen. He’d get on the ground with these kids,
and fight for them with tears in his eyes. During his first two

years at our shelter, I know things were difficult in his

personal life. His marriage was falling apart. His son was

diagnosed with autism. But he dealt with his pain by

focusing on families who were in even greater need. One

day we were sitting in his office, discussing his personal

struggles, when he suddenly changed the subject. He began

to talk about a family we were helping, and he got emotional.

I couldn’t tell which family he was crying about—the

shelter’s, or his own. Helping people was how he coped.

When Joe first arrived, our shelter only had fifteen beds.

Now it’s up to seventy-five, and over a thousand people

have been rehomed. That’s because of his hard work. And

I’d like him to get some credit for that. Joe Ader is one of the

best people this city has.”

“I became a mother without ever having sex. I was sixteen.

My sister was older than me, and she was living a reckless

life. By the time we found out she was pregnant, she was

already three months along. And the baby was born

premature—so there was no time to prepare. My sister went

back to the street life, and everything fell on me. I became

the mother. I was feeding him, changing his diapers, waking

up in the middle of the night. My mother helped at first, but

soon she had a stroke and lost all movement on her right

side. The doctor told us she wouldn’t be able to care for a

child. So she signed Aidan over to me-- right there in the

hospital. I was only eighteen years old. I was taking care of

my mom. I was taking care of my son. I kept it all very private.

I didn’t tell my tennis coach why I had to quit the team. I

didn’t tell my friends why I couldn’t take vacations, or go to

parties, or go to college. I didn’t want the stigma. I started

working four jobs. I pushed all my own feelings to the back

of my mind just to make sure my son was OK. I couldn’t even

grieve when my mom passed away. I had to think about him.

I had to make sure he was fine. Since then it’s been the two

of us. Aidan and I grew up together. He’s a great kid. He’s so

respectful. I get stopped all the time in our building.

Complete strangers tell me how much they love him. He

holds the door for people. He helps people carry their

groceries. He’s focused. He’s a go-getter. He gives one

hundred percent-- just like his mom. When there’s

something that has to be done, he gets it done.”

“Whenever I asked her about it, there’d be a lot of pain on

her face. She’d look stricken almost. As if I’d brought up

some tragedy. I assumed the worst. I thought rape, or some

awful thing. So I just stopped asking, and I grew up without

knowing anything about my father. But toward the end of

her life, I sat with her in the nursing home. I told her: ‘You’ve

been the perfect mother. You did everything right. I have no

complaints. But this might be the last time I can ask you, so

I’d like to know: ‘What happened with my father?’ And she

told me this story. About a whirlwind romance with a

Venezuelan computer scientist, who spoke several

languages, and swept her off her feet, and then revealed he
had a wife. To be honest—I didn’t believe it. It just didn’t

seem scandalous enough to be kept hidden for all those

years. And my mom had developed dementia, so I just

assumed it was a story she was telling herself. After her

death, I uploaded my DNA to Ancestry-- but found nothing

interesting. I resigned myself to never knowing. Until last

summer, when I finally got a match for a ‘first cousin.’ I sent

the woman a message and told her everything I knew. The

details matched up. And she confirmed my father was her

uncle: Pedro Lance Machado. Then she gave me the most

wonderful news: I had six living brothers and sisters. They

called me one-by one. None of the conversations were

awkward. And they all asked the same thing: ‘When’s the

soonest we can meet?’ They flew from all over to celebrate

my 51st birthday. They brought all their old photos of my

father. We rented a house. One of my sisters cooked

ceviche and paella. We played Latin music. We told stories. I

was never made to feel like an interloper. They never made

me feel like anything but a gift. Overnight, I went from an

only child, to a member of the most beautiful family.”

“I grew up near Harvard. I used to skateboard in Harvard

Square as a teenager, but I never felt like I belonged there.

Education was never really valued in my house. Neither of

my parents went to college. Our family life was in shambles

because they were getting a divorce. And I guess my coping

mechanism was having fun. I got in a lot of trouble. I almost

flunked out of high school. Afterwards I bounced around in

community college, until I happened to strike up a

conversation with a guy in the union. And that’s how I ended

up as a carpenter. Over the past several years I’ve worked a

lot of jobs on the Harvard campus. It’s an old campus so

there’s always work being done. And it’s hard sometimes --

seeing all those students going to school. When you’re

wearing your uniform, and covered in dirt, and on your knees,

it’s hard not to feel a bit of inferiority. There always seems

to be this barrier between labor and academia. Like if you

turn a wrench, you don’t deserve an advanced degree. So

three years ago I made up my mind. I’d just finished reading

‘Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,’ and I decided:

‘That’s it. I’m not going to drink. Or smoke. Or do anything

else—until I get into Harvard.’ I didn’t tell any of the guys.

None of them knew that I was taking classes on weekends

to get my bachelors. Or that I was studying for the GRE all

summer. Or that I’d applied to The Kennedy School of

Government. It’s been three long years, and the decision

finally arrived a couple weeks ago. I thought: ‘I’ve been

tortured by this for long enough. At least now I’ll have

closure.’ So I popped open the computer, signed into the

system, and burst out laughing. It didn’t seem real. I’d been

chasing this car for so long now, and I finally caught it. Now

I’m determined to do something with this opportunity. I want

to give back. I want to help working people have a seat at

the table.”
“My sister was the only girl in our family. There were four of

us—but between me and her it was different. We were the

closest in age, so we shared a lot. We shared the same

bedroom. We shared the same food. And we shared lot of

secrets. That’s why I was so disappointed that she didn’t tell

me about the pregnancy. She was already seven months

along when I heard the news from a friend. When I

confronted her, she tried to deny it. She only told the truth

when I promised that I’d support her no matter what. My

niece was born on December 19th. She was named Aseda,

which means ‘thanksgiving.’ After the birth, everything

seemed fine. My sister and I were talking on the phone. She

was sending me pictures. But on Christmas Eve the

complications began. Her condition worsened quickly. The

doctors said she needed to go to another hospital. But she

never made it. She died next to me in the back of an

ambulance. Before she passed, she told me- ‘anything that

you’d do for me, please do for my baby.’ These words were

written on my heart. Everything that followed was like a bad

dream. I’d just lost my sister, and suddenly I was taking care

of a preterm baby. I had to feed the child. There was no

formula in the hospital. I had to search everywhere. I didn’t

have time to sleep. I didn’t have time to mourn. But

somehow I found the strength. There are some things that

you don’t know are within you. Aseda is almost four months

old now. My girlfriend has been helping me every step of the

way. She has been amazing and I’m so thankful. Our plan is

to legally adopt Aseda. It’s a very personal thing for me. I

want the child to stay with me. I’ve been with her from the

very first hour. This is what I need to do for the baby. For my

sister. And for humanity.”

“Our family lived out in the woods without electricity or

running water. Both of my parents were mentally ill and

believed that God spoke to them directly. They didn’t believe

in education or medical care. I was the oldest of seven--

and all of us were physically abused. The only thing that

saved me is that I knew it was wrong. I always plotted my

escape. I wrote diary entries when I was eight years old--

vowing to live a different life. And when I was sixteen I got

pregnant with my first boyfriend. The pregnancy was

actually planned, because I thought it would get me out of

the house. And I was right. My mother was so angry that she
kicked me out, and I moved in with my boyfriend’s parents.

Their names were Esther and Salvi. They had a lovely house

with a fireplace. They ate dinner every night at the table, and

used napkins. They were probably lower middle class—but

to me it seemed like opulence. Esther and Salvi showed me

a different way. They treated me like their own daughter.

When I was seven months pregnant, my raging mother came

banging on the front door. Esther let her in, and my mother

started shouting. She said I was a whore. And an evil person.

I was terrified. I crouched in the stairwell and listened to

everything. When my mother finished, Esther replied: ‘That

is not what we see at all. Linda is a good person. She’s very

smart. And very helpful. And she’s going to be a wonderful

mother.’ Esther helped me raise my daughter and finish high

school. I went on to become a lawyer and adopt two

additional children. But even now, 45 years later—I can still

hear those words she said while I crouched in the stairwell:

‘Linda is a good person.’ It was the first time that anyone

had ever stood up for me.”

“It’s funny how things turned out, because I was never a

brave mother in the beginning. I was very fearful. Gabi never

learned to ride a bike because I was so scared that she’d fall

down and break a bone. In Brazil especially, there seems to

be a belief that daughters are made of glass and crystal. But

soon enough I realized, I need to raise her like I am: not

embarrassed to eat by herself, or go to a movie by herself,

or raise a daughter by herself. So I pushed her to be more

independent. In 2015 we were listening to a lot of news

stories about the Syrian refugee crisis. Gabi was fifteen by

then, and she already spoke very good English. So she was

determined to help. We organized a trip to the Greek island

of Lesvos— where many of the refugees were landing.

During that trip my daughter turned into a woman right

before my eyes. Not only a woman—a giant. She helped

thousands of people out of boats. I was so freaking worried.

Some of these people had hypothermia, so I thought

someone might die in front of her. But Gabi was so

energized. She never grew tired. And by the time we got

home, everything had changed. She wanted to do more. She

went back to Greece on her next vacation-- but this time

she went alone. Since then she’s been all over the world

helping refugees. It’s her life now. There have been articles

about her. She was even in a textbook You know, back when

I was pregnant with Gabi, I had this silly idea that I needed to

become a great journalist. So that my daughter would be

proud of me one day. And she’d tell her friends at school

about me. But that never happened. My daughter is the one

to be proud of. And I’m here to clear the way for her. Like

Sarah Connor in the Terminator movie. Recently I retired

from journalism so that I could open a flower company. Gabi

owns fifty percent of the company, and we use the profits to

fund her volunteer work. So I might not be a famous

journalist. But I’m a fucking good mother.”

“My partner and I were looking to foster a child, so we

decided to attend some parenting courses. There were

about five different couples in the class. And we were doing

this ‘ice breaker’ thing, where everyone shared their reason

for wanting to become a foster parent. When it came around

to one guy, he sort of shrugged, and said: ‘We already have

three kids, but there’s an extra seat in our minivan.’

Everyone started laughing. The whole room relaxed. And

that’s my first memory of Larkin. He was attending the class

with his wife Katie, and I was drawn to them immediately.

They were just such obviously good people. We started

eating lunch with them on our breaks. We’d visit them on

weekends. One Halloween we were trick-or-treating with

their kids, and Larkin sat me down on a stoop, and asked

why we hadn’t fostered yet. That’s when I told him about my

health problems. My mother had given me a kidney

transplant fifteen years earlier, and it was beginning to fail. I

was on heavy dialysis. I needed blood transfusions. Soon I

would need another kidney, but I couldn’t find a match. I

never asked him. I’d never do that to someone. But the next

day Larkin called me and told me he wanted to be tested. It

was a miracle. We were a perfect match. We went through

months of preparation. But four days away from the surgery,

my blood test showed an abnormality—and we were

suddenly unmatched. It was devastating. I felt like giving up,

but Larkin kept pressing me to consider a paired donation.

He offered to donate his kidney to an absolute stranger, if

the hospital would find me a match. And they did. Larkin

gave his kidney to a woman, and I received one from her

husband. I was forever changed by this man. Larkin is

someone who truly lives his life for other people. Not only

did he give me the gift of life. But he’s shown me what it

means to be a human on this earth.”

“We were at the laundromat together. My dad took the car

to ‘get us lunch,’ and just never came back. He was only

twenty-four, and I guess he couldn’t handle the pressure of

being a young dad. My mom was left in a very tough spot,

because not long afterward my health problems began. I

started walking with a limp. None of the doctors could figure

it out. That’s around the time my mom met Eric. Both of

them were working at Red Lobster. She was a waitress. Eric

was a bartender. I was only five years old, so I just knew him

as ‘Mom’s cool friend’ with the really long sideburns. We

started spending more and more time at his rental house. He

had an original Nintendo that he let me play. We spent our

first Christmas together. As things got more serious with my

mom, Eric really took charge of my health. He helped pay for

the specialists. He drove us to children’s hospitals around

the country. Finally we found the doctor who gave me a

correct diagnosis, and I was able to get the medication I

needed. Not long afterwards my mom and Eric got married.

They had three more children. But he treated me like his son.

When I was in high school, our youngest brother passed

away, and I don’t think my parents ever really recovered.

Recently they got a divorce, so there’s no ‘legality’ to Eric

and I’s relationship anymore. It’s become much more of a

friendship. But he’ll always be the father figure that I almost

didn’t have. Thirty years ago Eric stepped into a mess. Poor,

single mother. Disabled kid. He could have run the other

direction but he didn’t. He decided to get in there, get his

hands dirty, and become a father. And that’s the reason I

became the man I am today.”

“You kinda go into that whole thing thinking ‘one,’ so we

were pretty shocked to learn that we were having twins. We

were living in Las Vegas for my husband’s job. We didn’t

have any family around us. And I was getting nervous about

doing everything myself. Our neighborhood had one of those

communal mailbox areas, and I think that’s where I first met

our neighbors Joe and Marie. They were the sweetest

people. Marie was getting ready to retire, and one day she

mentioned that she’d like to help when the babies came.

‘I’m not looking for a job,’ she told me. ‘But when I was

raising my boys, I always wondered what it would be like to

have an extra hour in the day.’ I wasn’t sure about the

seriousness of her offer. But sure enough, on the first

morning I was alone with the twins, Marie called and asked if

I needed anything. She came over for about an hour while I

took a shower. Then she came over the next day. And the

next. Marie ended up coming over every weekday for an

entire year. She’d give me a short break and do whatever

needed to be done: prepare the bottles, fold the laundry,

wash the dishes. Every time she walked in the door, she’d

always say the same thing: ‘How are my babies today?’ We

became good friends during our time together. My own

mother was suffering from Alzheimer’s, so she wasn’t able

to provide the comfort and advice I needed. Marie helped

with that too. It wasn’t anything really deep-- just simple

stuff about mothering, that otherwise I’d have to find in a

book. Some nights the doorbell would ring and she’d have

dinner for us—the most wonderful Italian food. Her specialty

was Mama Marie’s Meatballs. We ended up leaving the city

when my kids turned four, but Marie and I stayed in touch on

the phone. I always sent her a Mother’s Day card. She was

hoping to come to Indiana for the kids’ graduation, but by

that time she was too ill to travel. Marie passed away a few
years ago. But up until the end of her life, every time she’d

call, she’d always greet me the same way: ‘How are my

babies today?’”
“I’m a first-generation American, so education was

extremely important in my house. I’d have family members

tell me: ‘You should be a doctor,’ but it always seemed

unobtainable. So I decided to major in accounting. And to

tell you the truth, I enjoyed the work for a long time. I loved

crunching numbers. It brought me joy. And it brought my

parents joy too. My father loved telling people that his

daughter worked on Wall Street. So I never questioned my

path. Then came September 11th. It was a beautiful

morning—just like this. We could see everything from our

office window. When the first plane hit, everyone assumed it

was an accident. Then the next plane hit, and people started

running out of the building. We stayed home for three weeks.

Our office was used for emergency triage, and it felt like a

warzone when we came back. You could still smell the

fumes coming through the vents. Things never went back to

normal for me. I remember coming into work on the 4th of

July, and thinking: ‘Why am working on a holiday? It’s not

like I’m saving lives.’ That’s when I decided to go back to

school. I found a college that would let me do nights and

weekends. After two full years of prerequisite courses, I was

accepted into medical school. And that’s when things really

got tough. I’m 35 at this point. I had been a Vice President at

Citibank. I’m full of confidence. But suddenly I’m in class

with all these younger people, and I’m struggling. It was hard.

But I found a crew of other students to support me. And I

was focused. I knew exactly what kind of pediatrician I

wanted to be. Ever since I’ve graduated—even in

residency-- I’ve been working with children in underserved

communities. Some of my patients grew up in homeless

shelters. But all of them get my very best. When I get

feedback, my patients will say: ‘Dr. Nelson really cares about

my daughter.’ And I do really care. It’s not an easy job by any

means. I’m still working nights. And weekends. And holidays.

But it’s a different attitude. I’ve never had a day when I woke

up feeling like I didn’t want to go to work.”

“I met Claire during my junior year of college. She was the

first girl I ever dated. I’d swung and missed so many times, it

was odd having somebody who finally reciprocated my

feelings. I’d never been very popular in high school. I didn’t

have a core group of friends. I wasn’t an athlete. And before

I met Claire, the only thing I had going for me was my

intelligence. I was always able to make good grades—so I

sort of clung to that. I became a perfectionist. I wouldn’t

even sign up for AP classes because I didn’t think I could

make an A+. When I got accepted into a great law school, I

finally felt like I was being vindicated. I was in the top quarter

of my class. But during my final year, Claire and I were

taking a trip to her parents’ house, and we got in a bad

accident on the highway. I woke up in a daze. When the

doctors scanned my head for a concussion, they discovered

a benign tumor. My brain surgery was scheduled for the next

week. The surgeon told me to expect some memory loss

during my recovery, but it was much worse than I expected.

I’d ask the same questions over and over. Sometimes I

couldn’t remember conversations that happened earlier in

the day. And I ended up failing the bar exam even though I

studied my very hardest. Eventually I was able to pass the

exam, but it’s been a struggle ever since. Over the past

seven years, it’s been a constant battle to convince myself

I’m still normal. To convince myself I’m still smart. But Claire

has been a total angel. She’s always telling me that nobody

is perfect. And that nobody needs to be perfect. She

reminds me that she’s not with me because I’m smart. Or

because I’m a lawyer. She’s with me because I’m a good

person. And a good father. And I’m deserving of love on

those grounds alone. Claire is the one who told me to send

in my story. She wanted me to tell you about how I passed

the bar exam after my brain surgery. But today is our eighth
anniversary. And I just wanted to tell her thanks for always

being there.”
“After my grandmother passed away, Dad stepped out of

the hospital for some fresh air. Then he said a prayer and

asked my grandmother to send him a sign. When he opened

his eyes, there was a dime at his feet. And after that day--

he began to look for dimes everywhere. I was six years old at

the time, and he’d always get me to help him search. My

head would be down wherever we went. Sometime when I

was in third grade, my parents sat me down and told me that

Dad had cancer. I remember sitting in the guidance

counselor’s office during recess. Apparently he’d already

been sick for several years. It was a rare type of cancer. And

it was aggressive. It would go away for two months at a time,

but it would always come back. But even the people who
knew him had no idea. He never let it stop him. He worked

really hard. Unfortunately his last few years lined up with my

angsty teenage years. I pushed him away a lot. I wanted to

hang out with my friends. And Dad wasn’t really the artistic

type, so I didn’t think we had much in common. But he kept

trying. And things did get better between us. He was really

silly and affectionate. He’d burst into my room while I was

studying, singing at the top of his lungs, using a bottle of

shampoo as a microphone. He’d always ask me to get

coffee. Or breakfast. And I’d usually say ‘no.’ Because it’s

hard when you have a terminally ill parent. You think about it

all the time, but it’s the last thing you want to think about.

And there’s this knowledge that the closer you become, the

harder it’s going to be. He died when I was sixteen. It was

November 30th. I remember walking around the parking lot

at his funeral-- staring at the ground. There wasn’t a dime

anywhere. And it really pissed me off. I was looking at the

sky. Shouting at the sky. But nothing. We found over 300

dimes when he was alive, but I couldn’t find any after he died.

I searched everywhere for an entire month. Then one day I

had a really bad day. So I decided to visit his grave for the

very first time since his funeral. I parked my car, walked

down the steps, and found my dad’s plaque. Then I looked

down at my feet. And there it was.”

“I met Jacob at a house party. I was nineteen. I’d just moved

to New York from Brazil. Right away we became inseparable.

It was the first time that either of us had been in love. Even

though he was a little younger, Jacob taught me so much. I

remember he used to read me Dr. Seuss books to help with

my English. After dating for a few months, we decided to

move to Rio De Janeiro together. We got married at the

courthouse so he’d have Brazilian residency. We stayed in

Rio for seven months. We had our own house. No parents

around. We went to the beach all the time. But we were too

young to make a relationship work. Disagreements became

bigger than they needed to be. It seems to be all or nothing

when you’re young. Either everything is perfect, and you’re

reading Dr. Seuss—or everything is horrible. At one point

Jacob decided he wasn’t ready to be married, and we ended

up going our separate ways. Over the years we lost touch. I

did call him once in 1990-- and we had a wonderful

conversation. But by that time he was engaged, and he

politely asked me not to contact him again. I admired his

integrity and respected his wishes. Both of us got married.

Then both of us got divorced. And I didn’t think about him

for a long time. But on June 17th of 2018, I was watching an

early-morning World Cup game, and I got a message on

LinkedIn. It was from Jacob. He said he’d been drinking a

cup of coffee, and was reminded of an inside joke we had.

That led to a three hour phone conversation. Which led to a

ten day trip to visit him in Michigan. I remember how strange

it was when we embraced at the airport. We were the same

people, but we were almost sixty. We’d lived through so

much. He had a little bit of a belly. And so did I. We poured

our hearts out over the next ten days. We didn’t spend all

our time in the bedroom. We spent our time talking. We

talked about our difficult childhoods. Our mental health

struggles. We talked about who we were back then—and

how much we’d grown. At the end of the trip we decided to

start a life together. We’re kinder to each other. We know

how to name things. And how to have difficult conversations.

It’s not like back then. When we were young-- we thought

we knew everything. And we suffered so much for it.

Because we barely knew anything at all.”

“I remember there was a day in kindergarten when we were

supposed to bring our dads to school. It was some type of

performance or something. I’d never met my father. So I

asked my mom if he could come, and she told me: ‘He’s too

busy. He lives in Malaysia. And he’s a king.’ My father was a

king? That meant I was a princess! It made me feel so proud.

But as I got older, I came to realize it was an elaborate story

my mom had invented to comfort me. She was a single

mother. We’d immigrated from the Philippines when I was

six, and we were living in a rented room. That’s not how a

princess was supposed to live. But whenever I’d ask more

about my father, my mother would become withdrawn.

She’d offer few details. She told me that she’d been working

as a nurse in Malaysia. And that she met the king at a party.

But the rest of the story seemed to be painful, so I took it

upon myself to never open that box. I stopped thinking about

it. Then one night, when I was fourteen years old, the phone

rang. There was a strange voice on the line. I’d never heard

the accent before. It said: ‘I represent His Royal Highness,

and we’ve received your letters.’ I quickly handed the phone

to my mom and she spoke to the man for several minutes.

When she finally hung up, she told me: ‘Your dad wants to

meet you now.’ I took a week off school. We flew to London

and stayed at the InterContinental hotel. We were greeted in

the lobby by a lawyer, who gave us a wad of cash to go

shopping, and told us that ‘His Royal Highness’ would be

available for lunch the next day. We agreed to meet in the

hotel restaurant. But it wasn’t just us. My father had an

entourage with him. During our meal he was very polite. He

told me I looked like my older sister. But my mother did the

majority of the talking. She had demands. She wanted

financial support—which was provided. But she also wanted

paternity in writing, which was never agreed to. Our lunch

lasted about an hour. Afterwards my father told me: ‘My

people will call you.’ And we did meet twice again. Each time

in London. Each time for an hour. But I was never brought

into the family. I was never fully acknowledged. Thankfully,

before we left that first lunch, my mother did make one last

request. She insisted that I take a photo with my father.”

“Mom died on the first day of school. She’d been really sick

that entire summer. And she passed away on a Monday. At 7

AM. Almost exactly the time I’d be leaving for school. I don’t

think I fully grasped how traumatic it was for me. I was there

when she took her last breath. I comforted my little sister

while she said goodbye. And the next week I had to start

classes at a brand new school. I was a junior at the time. All

the teachers knew what happened. And they had told all the

students, so everyone was pitying me when I showed up. I

met Alex that very first day. We were in choir together. We

became friends almost immediately, but we didn’t start

dating until we were both cast as leads in Seussical The

Musical. We became more serious during college, and we

ended up getting married right after graduation. I felt so sad

that my mom couldn’t see any of it. Every time a big event

would happen, it would be like—she’s not here. And she’s

never going to be here. I was a moody, shitty teenager when

she died. And I’m having this whole life where I become the

person I’m supposed to be, and she doesn’t get to see any

of it. She’s not going to see me graduate. She’s not going to

meet my children. And it especially sucks that she’ll never

get to meet Alex. We lit a lantern at our wedding to signify

that my mom was still with us. It was a beautiful ceremony,

and afterwards we took our honeymoon in Hawaii. A few

days into the trip, I received a call from my oldest friend

Meredith. She sounded excited. She’d just discovered a

picture of our childhood soccer team, and there was a boy

who looked just like Alex. When I showed Alex the photo, he

confirmed that it was him—he’d played goalie on that team.

I just started laughing. It was such a God moment. It was a

moment when everything felt connected. Alex and I had

known each other as children, back when my mom was still

alive. The first thing I did was call my dad. I asked him if he

remembered anything about the Swan’s Dermatology

Soccer Team. ‘I remember the goalie,’ he replied. ‘During

the games he’d always sit down in the net and play with the

dirt. And your mother thought it was hilarious.’”

“I was just a neighborhood kid. There was no running water

in our house. Or electricity for that matter. So in the

evenings, when I came home from school, I’d sit out near the

road. Across the street there was a hotel where foreigners

stayed. I’d watch them play Frisbee. I’d watch them buy

African souvenirs from the street vendors. Occasionally one

of them would come speak to me. I was an inquisitive child.

I liked to ask questions. So I think they found me

entertaining. One evening an American girl came up to me

and started asking me questions. Just small talk: ‘What’s

your name?’, and things like that. But then she asked my

birthday, and I told her: ‘November 19th.’ ‘No way.’ she

replied. ‘That’s my birthday too!’ And after that we became

friends. Her name was Talia. She’d come visit me every

evening, and bring me chocolate chip cookies. She’d let me

play her Game Boy. She’d ask about my family. She’d ask

about school. I was the best student in my third grade class,

so I’d show her my report cards, and she’d get so excited.

She was the first person to take me to the beach. I’d never

even seen the ocean before. We had so much fun together.

But one evening she told me that she was going back to

America. And I began to cry. She bought us matching

necklaces from a street vendor, took one final picture, and

promised that she’d write me letters. It was a promise that

she kept. The first letter arrived a few weeks after she left.

And there were many letters after that. She told her parents

all about me. They invited me to America to stay with them

for a month. They took me to baseball games, and

amusement parks, and shopping trips. It was the best time

of my life. When I returned to Ghana, they paid for all my

school fees. They bought my books and clothes. They paid

for me to get a degree in engineering. Now I have my own

company. The Cassis family turned my life around. I was just

some random kid they didn’t know, and they gave me a

chance for my dreams to come true. I went back to visit

them last year. But this time I didn’t need them to pay my

way. I was giving a speech at MIT, because I’d been selected

as one of their top innovators under the age of 35.”

“Mom died suddenly of a heart attack. One day she came

home early because she was feeling tired, and then she just

slumped over. My father was with her at the time. He tried to

resuscitate her—with all the trauma that entailed. I’m sure it

was tough on him, but he’d never been an outwardly

emotional man. I’d never seen him cry. There was a bunch of

people at our house after the funeral, and Dad kept excusing

himself. I’d follow him back to his bedroom. We’d lie in his

bed together and talk. It was the most open and honest that

I’d ever seen him. He told me he was feeling lost. And

inadequate. Mom had always been the outward face of the

relationship. The talker and the feeler. She’d host the parties

while he stayed in the kitchen. And now he’d lost that

connection to the world. He said that everything good about

me and my brother came from Mom: our intelligence, our

kindness, our success. Listening to him in that moment, I

realized how much he undervalued himself. I’d known that

some of his dreams in life hadn’t worked out. He never

finished college. He tried to start his own restaurant when I

was younger. I remember we’d go to the farmer’s market

together. He’d put on his chef coat, and network with all the

vendors, and pick his own ingredients, and make his own

dishes. It was such a proud time in his life. But the restaurant

didn’t survive. And he had to go back to work for other

people. But everyone he’d ever worked with came to Mom’s

funeral. From twenty years of restaurant jobs. That’s how

many lives he touched. Because even if he was a little

gruff—Dad was always kind. He was always giving. And even

if he wasn’t the most emotionally expressive, he was always

there. He always showed up for my stuff. More than that. He

always took an interest. A few years ago I decided to study

archeology, and he’s become enthralled by it. Sending me

articles. Asking me details. I think he has this idea of himself

as a grouchy old man—especially now that he’s alone. But

that’s not how I see him. Not at all. A few weeks after Mom’s
death, he sent me a text saying that he didn't know who he

was anymore. And I wrote him back: "You're my dad."

“He was really scared of my wheelchair when I met him. So

it didn’t seem like it was going to work out. But I had a soft

spot for him. Ted was the smallest of his litter. He ‘d been

really sick and they didn’t know if he was going to survive.

The first time I went to meet him, I collapsed in his owner’s

kitchen. But Ted wiggled over toward me and laid down on

my chest. Everyone thought it was so cute. It was the first

time I’d ever had a health scare that turned into something

positive-- so it seemed like it was meant to be. There are

two options when you get an assistance dog. You can get a

dog that’s already been trained. Or you can train the dog

yourself—and that’s what I wanted to do. Because I needed

something. I have this genetic disease. It weakens every part

of my body, but it didn’t get bad until my teenage years. So

I had this wonderful life and then it was taken away. I was

isolated from my friends for so long. I couldn’t go to school.

It reached a point where I couldn’t see a reason to live

anymore. I needed something to focus on besides my health.

And Ted gave me that. He needed me and I needed him. I

watched all the training videos I could find. I read all the

books. I reached out to people and asked for help. It gave

me a reason to talk to people again. I hadn’t done that in so

long. And I learned that I was good at training. Everything

just flowed. From day one—we’ve been so in sync. He can

fetch me anything. He helps me get undressed. He even

watches me when I sleep, and wakes me up if I’m having

night terrors. My mom was having to help me with everything

before I got Ted. And she loves me so much. But she has two

other children, and I know she was getting so tired. But Ted

doesn’t get tired. He loves to help. He’s so excited to help.

He’ll pick up the same thing seventeen times. It makes him

so happy. He’s my world—really. He saved my life. He made

me happy again. And he takes so much pressure off my

family. He gives me a break from being the disabled child.

From being the focus of everyone’s attention. He lets me be

a daughter. And a big sister. He lets me be Chloe again.”

“I was five when he became a person in my world. I didn’t

know exactly who he was. I just knew that there was

someone around that was making my mother smile. I had to

look way up to see him. I’d never met someone so strong.

He’d tell me to hold onto his wrist, and he’d lift me into the

sky with one hand. He worked at an auto shop, airbrushing

designs onto the side of vans. I think he dreamed of being an

artist. But he needed something more stable. So after he

decided to marry my mom, he became a cop. He never lost

touch with his creative side. He was always building things

around the house—making things look fancier than we could

afford. He built my first bike from scraps. He encouraged me

to read. He encouraged me to write. He loved giving me little

assignments. He’d give me a quarter every time I wrote a

story. Fifty cents if it was a good one. Whenever I asked a

question, he’d make me look it up in the encyclopedia. One

day he built a little art studio at the back of our house. And

he painted a single painting—a portrait of Sting that he

copied from an album cover. But he got busy with work and

never used the studio again. He was always saying: ‘when I

retire.’ ‘I’ll go back to art, when I retire.’ ‘I’ll show in a gallery,

when I retire.’ But that time never came. Dad was a cop for

twenty years. He was one of the good ones. The kind of cop

you see dancing on the street corner. Or skateboarding with

kids. But in 1998 he was diagnosed with MS. First there was

a little weakness. Then there was a cane. Then there was a

wheelchair. It got to the point where he couldn’t even hold a

paintbrush. We did his hospice at home. He seemed to have

no regrets. He’d been a wonderful provider. He’d raised his

daughters. He’d walked me down the aisle. During his final

days, we were going through his possessions, one by one.

He was telling me who to give them to. I pulled the Sting

painting out of an old box, and asked: ‘What should I do with

this?’ His response was immediate. ‘Give it to Sting,’ he said.

All of us started laughing. But Dad grew very serious. His

eyes narrowed. He looked right at me, and said: ‘Give it to

Sting.’ So I guess that’s my final assignment.”

“It’s not that Chris isn’t an animal person. He just had no

idea what was coming. We met in college. Both of us were

working at the student newspaper. And at the time I was

focused on journalism, so I don’t think he fully processed my

love for animals. I did volunteer at the local shelter while we

were dating. And I was working at a barn, so I rode horses

quite a bit. But there was a ‘no pet’ policy in our dorm, so it

wasn’t until we moved into our own apartment that we got

our first dog together. His name was Snoopy, and Chris got

pretty attached to him. So that’s when I suggested we

register for a foster program. Chris seemed a little hesitant

at first, but I told him: ‘Let’s just get approved, and we’ll

take it from there.’ The next day we were fostering a puppy.

And that was that. We’ve been married for eight years, and

over four hundred animals have come through our home.

There have been a lot of cats. And a ton of dogs. Terminally

ill dogs. And nervous dogs. And rowdy, jumpy, bitey dogs.

We’ve had several litters of puppies that needed to be tube

fed. And six rats. Chris did try to stop the rats. He said:

‘We’re not doing rats.’ But then we got the rats. And now

they have a whole big condo in our bathroom. One of them

has breathing problems so Chris has to help her with a

nebulizer. He’s very, very tolerant. He works from home, so

he’s always with the animals. There’s always barking in the

background of his podcast. Or when he’s trying to do video

interviews. And he’s had a few ‘I can’t take it anymore’

moments. We’ve had shut down the fostering for a few

weeks at a time. But then I’ll always find an animal that really

needs a place to go. And Chris will look at the picture, and

ask the same thing: ‘Is there nowhere else they can go? Is it

life or death?’ And I’ll exaggerate a little bit, and say: ‘We’re

their only hope.’ And then he’ll grudgingly allow it— just one

more time.”
“My dad enrolled in college when he was twelve years old.

He met my mother during his junior year. He was fifteen at

the time, and she wanted nothing to do with him. But he was

determined in his pursuit. He accompanied her one day to

collect millipedes for a biology project. He wasn’t very good

at it. He found nothing but spiders. But he took his collection

back to the lab and put one of the spiders under a

microscope. Then he did it again. And again. Until he

eventually became the world’s leading arachnologist. People

always ask me if there were spiders around our house

growing up. And there weren’t. His job mainly consisted of

research. He published hundreds of books and papers. He

wrote so much that I always fell asleep to the sound of his

keyboard. If you look at the arc of his work, it’s clear that his

true passion was classification. He loved to collect and

synthesize information. Spiders were just his entry into that

world. But I’m not sure how much that examination extended

to his own emotions. We never talked about feelings in our

house. So when my mother passed way, I was surprised to

receive a letter from my dad. He said that he loved me. And

that he felt like the worst father ever, because he’d spent

too much time on his work. That’s not at all how I viewed him.

But clearly it was a belief that he’d been living with. It was

the first time he’d ever been vulnerable with me. Dad

suffered a fatal fall a few weeks ago. And it’s been really

hard. Because ever since he’d written that letter, we’d

become best friends. We didn’t just talk about events

anymore. He was sharing his feelings. It wasn’t perfect. It

was still spotty. But Dad was beginning to understand that

emotions aren’t just an inconvenience that get in the way of

truth. They have a life of their own. They’re part of the

fullness of life. They’re what make us different than spiders.

I remember the year after Mom passed away. We’d grown

much closer. And we were eating dinner together at a

seaside restaurant. I remember Dad got really quiet, and

said: ‘I’ve been trying to figure out what I’m feeling lately.

And I’ve decided that I’m happy.’ It was the first time that I’d

ever heard him say it.”

“Dad had been waiting on a heart transplant for three

months, but he eventually got so sick that they took him off

the waiting list. Mom wanted to spend one final night with

him at the hospital. But she didn’t want me going home

alone. So I think she was preoccupied with finding me a

place to stay. There must have been a notice sent out on the

church email list, because a bunch of people were coming

by the hospital to say goodbye. One of them was a red

headed lady named Sandy. I didn’t know her well. I knew she

was married to the deacon who talks a lot. But I think she

sensed I needed help, because she walked up to me and

asked: ‘Do you have anywhere to go tonight?’ When I told

her ‘not really,’ she said: ‘You’re coming with me.’ I hadn’t

eaten all day, so she took me to Sonic and got me a grilled

cheese sandwich. She asked how I was feeling. She asked

about my plans for the future. And she told me to write down

everything I could remember about my last conversation

with my dad. When we got back to her house, she let me

sleep in her daughter’s bedroom. The next morning she

drove me back to the hospital. My whole family gathered

around, and we prayed, and sang songs, and let my dad go.

Sandy stayed through all of that. Then two days later she

took me canoeing on the 4th of July. We watched fireworks

together from the lake. Over the next few weeks, Sandy

started hosting these bonfires at her house. She’d invite

everyone from church who’d lost someone recently. It

wasn’t a guided thing. You could talk about whatever you

wanted. And leave whenever you got tired. But they were

comforting. At some point I got a text message from

Sandy’s son. He was away at the Naval Academy, but he

sent me a short note saying: ‘I’m so sorry about your dad.

And I’m praying for you.’ One year of talking, and three

years of long distance later, we were married. On the night

of our engagement, Sandy gave me a set of pearls. She said:

‘All the women in my family get a set of pearls when they

turn sixteen. That’s around the age I got to know you. And I

never told you, because I didn’t want to pressure things. But

I knew you were perfect for my son. And I always hoped

you’d be my daughter.”
“She was sick a lot when I was younger. Whenever people

came to visit, they’d say: ‘Your mom loves you so much.’ But

it never seemed that way. She wasn’t very affectionate. I did

admire her though. I thought she was cool. She was

president of a sailing club, and all these rough, leathery men

would hang on her every word. But she never brought the

same passion to being a mother. Our one bonding

experience was watching Law and Order marathons. There

was an episode when the main character called his friend a

‘hoe.’ And Mom thought that was hilarious, so it became a

thing in our house. We’d call each other ‘hoes’ in a playful

way. Things took a turn for the worse when the doctors
prescribed her pain meds. Her personality disappeared. She

couldn’t function anymore. I’d find her on the floor of her

bedroom. Even after she went to rehab, she would never

admit that she had a problem. Or apologize for the pain that

she caused. In college my therapist had me write a letter,

explaining how I felt. I read the whole thing to my mom over

the phone. She listened quietly. I was sobbing the entire time.

Mom wasn’t sobbing, but at the end she said: ‘I’m really

sorry. I didn’t know that.’ After that she tried her best. I think

she knew she didn’t have long to live. She’d call and see how

I was doing. She’d send me little packages. She began to

initiate things. And that was new. My entire life I’d been the

one to initiate. I never even liked sailing. But I always asked

her to go because it was something she’d do with me. It’s

lonely being the one who initiates. We had a couple good

years together before her death. We were starting to

improve, so her passing hit me especially hard. My aunt tried

to tell me that every time I saw a butterfly-- it was my

mother. But that made no fucking sense. Because my

mother would never choose to be a butterfly. So one day I’m

telling all this to my therapist. And the whole time I’m staring

at this magnetic letter board with the word ‘HOPE’ written

on it. And just as I’m talking about missing my mom, the ‘P’

falls off the board. My therapist must have noticed my

reaction. Because she laughed, and said: ‘Does that mean

anything to you?’”
“My mother passed away suddenly while I was studying in

America. It was such a dark moment for me. She had been

the most important person in my life, and I wasn’t even with

her when she died. I needed to get home to Zimbabwe for

the funeral, but it was right before Christmas so every flight

was booked. The only ticket I could afford was a middle seat.

It was so cramped. I couldn’t even move my legs. But I

happened to notice an empty seat in the exit row behind me.

The flight attendant allowed me to change places, and I sat

down next to a white girl. I remember thinking: ‘She’s going

to hate me for taking up her space.’ But instead she smiled

and made a joke. She said: ‘Welcome to exit row paradise.’

There was an immediate connection. Right away we began

talking about deep things. I told her about my mother. And

she told me that her father had also died suddenly while she

was working overseas. We started sharing stories of our

parents. And before we landed, she ordered two whiskey

drinks in celebration of my mom. I spent two weeks in

Zimbabwe. I told all my friends that my mother had put an

angel on my flight. My trip home wasn’t much easier. This

time I had a long layover in London, so I sat down in the

airport bar and ordered a beer. And in she walked. God had

put us on the same flight once again. When we pulled out

our tickets and looked at our seat numbers, we couldn’t

believe it. She was seat 61. I was 60. I hadn’t even been

looking to meet someone. I was determined to stay single

and focus on my schoolwork. But it was like she had been

brought to me. Everyone who meets Hannah tells me how

lucky I am. She is so kind, and smart, and accomplished. We

dated for almost two years before we got married. When I

gave a speech at our reception, I didn’t need notes. Because

I knew our story. I told everyone about that girl I met on a

plane. And I was looking at her as I spoke, and she was now

my wife, and it made me so emotional. It was so hard to

know how to feel. I wanted my mom to meet her so bad. But

if my mom was still here, I’d never have met her. Somehow

I’d found the most important person in my life because I lost

the most important person in my life.”

“A few years ago I was working the graveyard shift at a hotel

in Orlando. It was ‘that’ hotel—the cheapest one in the area.

The place where people go for an hour to do the things they

need to do. And not only was I working there, but I was living

there too. Because my wife was pregnant with our second

child, and it was the only place we could afford. Late one

night I’m sitting in the lobby with the owner’s son. It was just

the two of us. He was from New York. He graduated from

college and worked at a hedge fund. But I was still holding

my own with him. I was able to challenge some of his beliefs.

Because even though I’m working at a cheap hotel, I still

know a lot of things. Then at one point he looks me dead in

the eye, and says: ‘You know what? You’re probably right.

You deserve more. But why would I ever give it to you, when

I can get you for this?’ And that broke me. Because he knew.

He knew what it all comes down to in the end. He knew he

was going to drive away in his Tesla. And I was going to

leave my desk, and go back to my room, in the hotel that he

owned, which I couldn’t even afford with the money he paid

me. He knew my wife was sick. And my child was about to

be born. And that I had no other options. And it’s just so hard,

man. It’s so hard to live in a world that wants you to be weak.

That wants you to be an angry black man. Especially when

you work your ass off every day. And you love people. And

you tell your kids to be a good person. But I will say this, man.

I’ve never buckled. A few weeks ago I lost my job. I just lost

my home. It was just a room in some guy’s house, but it was

where we lived. And we lost it. But I’m not going to fall down

now. Because I’ve got to keep fighting for my family.

Nothing else in this world matters man. They are god and my

world. I’ve got a wife who treats me like a hero when we’re

sleeping on the floor. And I’ve got the sweetest, most

innocent kids man. They are just so sweet. And it’s so hard.

Because they don’t deserve any of this. So I’ve got to keep

fighting. I don’t need money or cars but they don’t deserve

any of this.”
“I was nineteen or twenty. I was becoming aware that I might

be gay. My parents were very religious, so they took me to

see the pastor. And it left me convinced I was going to hell.

It wasn’t until I left for college that I finally had the space to

be myself. But since I was cut off from my parents, I needed

a way to survive. So I applied for a job with the janitorial

staff. The Head of Facilities was named George, and he was

scary. He was the one who’d write you up for drinking

alcohol. And he had this huge set of keys on his belt. So if

you heard him coming, you ran the other way. He told me

years later that when I asked for a job, he could tell I was

going through something. So he gave me a chance. I

followed him while he did his rounds. He showed me how to

fix things around the dorm. And the whole time we’d talk. He

was this conservative, blue-collar, white dude. But he saw

me. We became so close that people teased me about our

friendship. He’d ask about my day. He’d ask my opinions. He

knew I was gay, but he didn’t care as long as I showed up on

time. After work one day, when we were finished sweeping

up, I sat down with George on a bench. I was feeling

depressed, so I told him: ‘I’m done. I can’t do it anymore. I’m

dropping out to join the Army.’ That’s when he told me:

‘You’ve got some college under your belt. You should go to

West Point instead.’ I’d never even heard of West Point. I

began to research the school, but everyone else

discouraged me. My basketball coach laughed at me. It

began to seem impossible, especially because I was doing it

alone. But George encouraged me. ‘You have a real shot,’

he said. ‘Just apply.’ So I did. And I was accepted. I went on

to get an MBA from Wharton and now I’m working in finance.

But George has fallen on tough times. The college closed

down, so his job disappeared. And he recently lost his son. I

know he’s in a lot of pain. He’s like a father to me. He calls

me all the time. We say ‘I love you.’ So I need him in my life.

I just want him to know that I see him. And that he matters.

And he did a whole lot more than fix things. He fixed

people.”
“I think she started to realize that it wasn’t going to happen

for her. She was in her forties. She hadn’t met the right

person to start a family with. And after her third failed

insemination, she had enough money to try one more time--

or adopt. So she chose to adopt. This was the 90’s, and

China had just begun to loosen their restrictions on

international adoption. So she travelled there with a group of

eight other families. The adoption lawyer gathered everyone

in the hotel restaurant. Then he walked in a circle, and

handed each family a small piece of rice paper. On the paper

was written a name, a birth date, and a date of

abandonment. My mother describes that piece of paper as

the first time she ever met me. She gave me three names.
My first name is Zoe-- which means ‘life.’ She kept my

Chinese name FuMian as my middle name. And my third

name is Suni—which means ‘long awaited little darling.’

Ever since that day it’s just been the two of us. As a young

child I wasn’t able to fully understand the concept of

adoption— but I knew we didn’t look alike. And my

children’s books had titles like Families Are Different and

The Color Of Us. But Mom was very open about my history.

She always did her best to incorporate Chinese elements in

my upbringing. We celebrated Chinese New Year. I took

Mandarin classes. There was Chinese artwork hanging in

our house. As I grew a little older, I started to ask a lot of

questions about my birth mother. But Mom never felt

threatened by it. She encouraged it. She told me to write

letters and keep them in my journal, to let my birth mother

know that I was doing OK, and that I was happy. We even

invented a name for her, so that she would seem more real.

We called her Mei. Whenever we talked about Mei, my

mother would show me that original piece of rice paper. It

shows my birthday as March 7th, but my abandonment was

two weeks later on March 21st. Mom always made a big deal

out of those two weeks. She told me that it proved how

much Mei loved me. And how she knew she couldn’t keep

me, but she wanted to care for me as long as possible. So

that I would be strong enough to move on.”

“He wasn’t exactly the straight and narrow type. He

dropped out of high school and joined the Navy. He met my

mom while watching the Stanley Cup in a midtown bar. Both

of them were pretty big partiers at the time. But when I came

along, my dad said: ‘We’re going to settle down. And we’re

going to start a family.’ But my mom wasn’t ready to leave it

all behind. So I was born into what would become a very

turbulent home. It was a two-bedroom apartment next to a

busy road in New Jersey. My dad ended up raising three

children there. For ten years he slept on a pullout couch in

the living room, so that the rest of us could have our own

bedroom. He always held multiple jobs to make ends meet.

We didn’t get fancy things. But we never went hungry. And

even though he dropped out of high school, he always

insisted on education. When I was a little girl, he’d squeeze

next to me at the kitchen table every Thursday night, still in

his mailman’s uniform, so he could prepare me for my

spelling test on Friday. He’d treat it like a courtroom

cross-examination. He’d go down the list of words, and any

time I struggled, he’d say: ‘Are you asking me? Or are you

telling me?’ He wouldn’t stop until I had every one correct.

Then I’d ask if we could move on to the next subject. But

he’d always suggest we take a break first. He’d go off to

cook dinner, and somehow we never got back to it. I’d finish

the rest of my homework alone. But I was a motivated

student. I got accepted into one of the best high schools in

the state. And all three of us ended up graduating college.

To this day, my dad says: ‘The best thing I ever had was

you.’ He was the only one of his siblings who never bought a

house. But no house could be worth what he gave us. A few

years ago, I was sitting next to him at Thanksgiving dinner.

We started talking about childhood memories, and I asked

him: ‘What was the deal with the spelling? Why were so

intense about it?’ He laughed, and said: ‘I chose spelling

because the answers were right in front of me. It’s the only

subject I could help you with. But I knew if I pushed you on

that, you’d take care of the rest.’”

“I was a single mother of two boys. I was working overnights

to make ends meet. And I didn’t even have permanent

residency, so things were very stressful. Every night I’d drop

the boys off with a babysitter on the way to work. On that

particular evening, everything seemed normal. Elijah was

perfectly healthy. But in the middle of the night, I received a

text from the babysitter. She said there was an emergency,

and she was taking Elijah to the hospital. By the time I

arrived his heart had stopped beating. He was only six

months old. The cause of death was listed as Sudden Infant

Death Syndrome. A few days later I collected the autopsy

results from the police station, and I met the lieutenant who

had done CPR on Elijah. He seemed very moved by Elijah’s

death, but I didn’t think much of it. I was too overwhelmed by

my own grief. I felt completely alone. Elijah’s father hadn’t

attended the funeral. And there wasn’t even a headstone on

the grave. The only thing I could afford was a small wooden

cross. So whenever I visited the cemetery, I couldn’t even

find where he was buried. It was like I’d lost him completely.

For years I felt so guilty about it. It was such a weight on my

shoulders. I felt that I was neglecting his memory, and that I

would need to make things right if I was ever going to heal.

Then one afternoon I received a call from a local reporter.

He asked me if I was the mother of Elijah. And he told me

that he was working on a story about a police officer who

was raising money to buy a headstone. It was Lieutenant Jim

Janso. The same officer who’d given Elijah CPR. The

reporter arranged for us to meet at Elijah’s grave. Jim

comforted me. He told me that all these years he’d thought

I moved away. But he never stopped thinking about Elijah.

He’d kept visiting his grave: every Christmas, every birthday,

and every anniversary of his death. In that moment, I broke

down. The weight of the world was lifted off of my shoulders.

For the past four years I’d been crying to God. I was

convinced that Elijah had been abandoned. But that entire

time—all those years I thought he was lost, and forgotten,

there had been an angel watching over him.”

My parents split up when I was seven, so my grandmother

was the one stable thing in my life. She’d cook me dinner,

tuck me in bed, then put on her nurse’s uniform and go to

work. She was already 65 by then, but somehow she’d still

find the energy to cook me breakfast when she came home.

She understood me. We shared secrets. Both of us tended

toward melancholy, and she made me feel OK about that.

We also had similar weaknesses. Oma put everyone else

before herself. My grandfather was abusive and abandoned

her. But when he got cancer in his old age, she told him:

‘Come back home Joe, I’ll take care of you.’ She nursed him
until he died. That’s the kind of person she was. Christmas

was always a huge deal for her. It was the main reason she

kept working. She’d save up all year for it. Each of her

grandkids would get twenty presents, and they’d be stacked

to the ceiling. Unfortunately her health was never great

because she smoked her entire life. And when I visited her in

December of 2017, she was in horrible shape. She couldn’t

walk more than a few steps without gasping for air. I

remember carrying her up the stairs and putting her to bed.

I read her books from my childhood. And she hated every

minute of it, I’m sure. Because she hated being cared for.

When our time was finished, and I was walking out the door,

she told me: ‘Nick, I love you so much. And please don’t tell

anyone-- but this is the last time you’re going to see me.’ I

cried the entire way to the airport. And three days later she

died. It was the week before Christmas. My entire family

flew to her house for the funeral, and there were tons of

presents, for every child and grandchild, perfectly wrapped

and placed under the tree. But I was too heartbroken to go.

And I think she anticipated that. Because on December 23rd

I received a package. It was postmarked the day that she

died. Inside was a bottle of holy water, a rosary, and a card

that said: ‘Right now you probably feel like the weight of the

world is on your shoulders, and it’s going to come crashing

down. But keep going. We all have a purpose in life. And one

of the reasons you are here was to bring some happiness

into mine.’”
“It was my first year teaching at a new school. Cristina was

only an eighth grader, but she was in my enhanced math

class. We didn’t bond much that year. Partly because she

didn’t need my help. But mainly because I was so frazzled.

Being a new teacher is rough. You’re dealing with students

from all different backgrounds. You’re trying to teach them

the quadratic formula. But also to be a good person, and

navigate life. On top of it all you’re having to navigate school

politics. So it always seems like there’s a fire to be put out.

Sometimes I’d stay late trying to finish extra work, and

that’s when Cristina came wandering in. By that time she

was a freshman. And she was heartbroken, because she’d

just gotten a ‘D’ on a math test. She’d hit a wall. So I gave

her practice problems to do on the whiteboard. I enjoyed

having her around. It was nice to have someone else in the

classroom. And even when she didn’t need my help anymore,

she kept coming anyway. We kept up the tradition for four

years. We’d put on country music. Then we’d sit on opposite

sides of the room and do our work. She went from thirteen

to eighteen in my classroom. I watched her grow up. Our

conversations matured. We started talking about college.

And what she wanted to do with her life. We talked about her

first boyfriend. And her first breakup. I got to see it all.

Whenever a new class would graduate, it was so sad to see

the kids leave. But in the back of my mind, I’d always say: ‘At

least Cristina is only in 9th. At least Cristina is only in 10th.

At least Cristina is only in 11th.’ But this year her class finally

graduated. I knew the moment would come, but it’s still

tough. Because they’re the first class that spent all four

years with me. They watched me grow. They saw me on my

very first day. They saw me come back one summer with a

new last name. They were with me when I figured it all out--

and they were so smart that they succeeded anyway.

Cristina graduated as the valedictorian. She’ll be going to

the University of Pennsylvania next year. She wants to be a

nurse. And I’m just so proud of her. It’s been such an honor

to watch her grow. And I can’t wait to see what she does

next.”
“It was my friend’s birthday, and everyone else was

twenty-one except for me. So we went to a bar that

wouldn’t check ID. It was called ‘The Clif Tavern,’ and it was

a total dive. The cash register was from 1948. The owner

was an old, weathered guy named Skip. He seemed very

excited to have customers. He told us stories all night long.

He talked about meditation, and racing cars, and being a

black belt. I remember he was really proud that his brother’s

dog had been in a movie with Cameron Diaz. By the time we

left, all of us were in love with the place. We started coming

back every weekend. And I was hanging around so much

that Skip offered me a job as a bartender. He didn’t teach

me much. He knew very little about business. He kept all his

documents in an empty Budweiser box. But he was the spirit

of the place. He gave great hugs. He called everyone his

‘kids.’ And he was a total hippie. Whenever he posted on

social media, he’d sign it ‘Peace and Love.’ We worked

together for ten years. Skip was with me when I met my

husband. He witnessed our first kiss. He became like a

father figure to me. And his bar became a huge part of my

life as well. Skip used to always say that the bar was ‘killing

him,’ and he kept threatening to move to Costa Rica. But he

could never stay away for long. There were maybe six days

in ten years that he didn’t come to the bar. So when he

didn’t show up one evening, everyone knew that something

was wrong. The police went to his apartment and found him

unresponsive. He’d died of a heart attack. None of us knew

what to do. I gave the eulogy at his funeral, and then left to

go open the bar. All of us assumed it was the end of

everything. But one month after the funeral, I got a call from

Skip’s brother. He said he couldn’t sell Skip’s legacy to a

stranger, so he offered the bar to me and my husband. Over

the past few months we’ve renovated everything. We have a

new tap system now. We’ve added a modern register. We’ve

made a lot of changes, because we know that it needs to be

an actual business if it’s going to survive. But we’ve also

covered an entire wall with Skip’s photos and notes.

Because we always want the place to feel like Skip.”

“My biological mother had three kids at a young age, then

dropped us all off with my aunt. It wasn’t even a legal

adoption—she just signed a piece of notebook paper. My

aunt already had three kids of her own, so it was wild in that

house. Summers without air. Winters without heat. I loved

her to death. And she tried to keep us clothed and fed, but I

can’t say that everything she did was exactly legal. She

collected disability for some injury that she never wanted to

talk about. And she was a bit of a thief. On the first day of

school we’d go to the Salvation Army and switch our old

clothes for the ones on the rack. My brothers began to

model her behavior at a very young age. They drank a lot.

They fought a lot. And they stole a lot. The whole town knew

about us. On the first day of high school, our principal Mr.

Herring pulled me aside and gave me a stern warning: ‘I

know your siblings,’ he said. ‘And I hope you remember that

we won’t tolerate the same behavior from you.’ I was

absolutely devastated. I’d stayed out of trouble my entire life.

I’d been determined to show that ‘I’ was better than ‘we.’

But apparently it hadn’t worked. So I tried even harder. I

made good grades. I threw myself into musicals and drama

and journalism. I even became the first student from our

school to go to nationals for speech and debate. I did notice

that some of the fees were waived for my activities and

school trips, but I assumed everyone was getting the same

treatment. Then three weeks before graduation, I was called

into the principal’s office. I was horrified. I’d never been in

trouble before. Mr. Herring was silent for fifteen seconds,

then he said: ‘I made a huge mistake. The biggest mistake a

teacher can ever make. I judged you before I ever knew you.

And for that—I apologize.’ Then he got up, gave me a hug,

and asked me to give a speech at our graduation ceremony.

I felt so seen in that moment. After graduation I ended up

going back to the school to work as a speech coach. One

day I happened to be chatting with an old teacher, and I

joked about how I never had to pay for my activities. ‘Oh,’ he

said. ‘Your teachers all chipped in to pay for them. Along

with Roger Herring.’”

“My mom cried before they even said cancer. But my dad

was stone cold—listening to every word the doctor said. It

wasn’t until a few days later, when we were going through a

list of my possible treatments—that he started sobbing like

a child. I was the one hugging him-- telling him it was going

to be OK. Dad was my best friend. He was the favorite of

everyone in our family. He spoiled all my little cousins. He’d

let them sleep on his belly. Everyone got a little motorized

jeep for their birthday. And he had the biggest laugh-- he

was always cracking jokes and telling stories. Our house

was so lively that I never even felt like I had cancer. My

tumor was shrinking, and it was easy to assume that things

were going to get better. Then a few months into my

treatment, Dad started getting fevers every night. Really

high fevers. When we finally took him for a biopsy, he was

diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. I knew that his

was the worse of the two. But I didn’t think much about it. I

didn’t research survival rates. I was only fourteen—it

honestly never occurred to me what could happen. I wasn’t

wondering: ‘Will I make it? Will he make it?’ I just focused on

getting better. Dad and I started doing our chemo together.

We’d give each other encouragement. He’d tell me that I

looked like a model with my bald head. I’d tell him the same

thing. Whenever I wasn’t nauseous, he’d cook me his

signature dish: South Indian Chicken Curry. He taught us all

the recipe before he got really sick. We all huddled in the

kitchen one night and he explained it to us step-by-step.

I’m so thankful that my sister wrote it all down, because a

couple months later he was in the ICU. I don’t think my

family wanted me to know how bad it was. They didn’t want

to jeopardize my recovery. So they kept me from the

hospital until the very end. By that time he was heavily

sedated. He couldn’t talk anymore. I wasn’t allowed to enter

the room because I was still immunocompromised. But they

told him: ‘Mani, your daughters are here.’ And he struggled

so hard to open his eyes. He had the biggest eyes. Even

from the other side of the glass, I could see his eyes. And he

opened them as wide as he could.”

“I’d never given it any thought. But when my boss’s husband

got a kidney from a newscaster in town, it sorta became a

local story. And I began to learn more about it. I found out

that a kidney from a living donor can give someone more

than twenty years of life. And there were 2500 people in

Ohio on the waiting list. So after confirming that I’d still be

able to drink, I signed up for the registry. Two months later I

got an email saying that they’d found a match. They’d only

say that it was a local man. But I was excited. I think I needed

a little purpose in my life. I didn’t have any children. I didn’t

have anyone to carry on my whatever. And I loved thinking

that I could help someone in such a major way. Not everyone

meets their donor. But since both of us agreed, a meeting

was arranged for after the surgery. They sat me in a

conference room at the hospital. I had no idea who was

going to walk in the door. And when Tom walked in, I could

only think one thing: ‘Oh my God. I’ve given my kidney to

Wesley Snipes.’ He was really quiet, so I did most of the

talking. But at the end he said: ‘I only have one question.

Why would you do this for someone you didn’t know?’ And I

said: ‘Why not?’ After that it was like a light switched on. We

were going to be friends forever. That’s just how it was

going to be. Tom became like a brother to me. He makes fun

of me a lot, but he’s also extremely protective. Not that I’d

ever need someone killed, but if I did, I’d know who to call.

Three years after the transplant I was diagnosed with breast

cancer. It was a nasty kind. And I didn’t have any family

around. But Tom called my sister in Florida and said: ‘Don’t

worry. I’ve got this. It’s my turn to take care of her.’ He took

me to every single one of my chemo appointments. He kept

me company the entire time. A few weeks after my

treatment ended, I threw myself a 50th birthday party. At the

end I gave a little speech. I was looking out at all the people

I loved. All the people who’d helped me. And I couldn’t even

speak. I turned into a big sobbing mess. Tom got up from his

chair and walked to the side of the stage, and grabbed my

hand. And he held it until I could speak again.”

“I thought studying in the US would be easy. I’d attended a

UN conference in high school, so I already had a visa. I

begged my father to let me go. He finally agreed and took

out a loan to buy me a plane ticket. I arrived with $150 in my

pocket, and stayed with a Gambian family in Maryland. For

two months I visited schools, asking for financial aid—but

nothing was available for people like me. I began to accept

the reality that I would need to go back home. There was one

last school called Montgomery College. It was a five-minute

bus ride from where I was staying. And when I visited the
campus, I learned about a scholarship for international

students. But the deadline was approaching, and I would

need to submit my application that day. I searched

everywhere for a computer. I walked through the hallways

looking for any door that was open. And that’s how I

discovered Professor Rudin. She was sitting at her desk. She

had currency from all over the world hanging on her wall. I

noticed a bill from Gambia, and that’s how we started

talking. I stayed for two hours. I told her my entire story, and

by the end we were crying and hugging each other. Kelly

researched the scholarship and learned it wouldn’t work out.

But that night she spoke to her husband Tom, and they

decided to pay for my school fees. They gave me money for

food and clothes. Kelly drove me to Best Buy and got me a

phone, and then added me to their family plan. I’m still on

that plan today. For two years I lived with the Rudins. Every

morning Kelly made me breakfast, and we drove to school

together. She and Tom became like my parents. And her

children became like my siblings. They hung pictures of me

around the house. They helped with my entire education.

When I graduated from Georgetown, they even paid for my

father to attend the ceremony. He was so overwhelmed

when he arrived. He gave Tom the biggest hug. It was such

an emotional moment for me. I thought about how it all

started—begging my dad to let me come to America. And

here I was, four years later, graduating from Georgetown.

My father was with me. And he was thanking the two human

beings who took me in and called me their daughter.”

“We were together for three years. He wasn’t a bad person.

He worked hard. He was charismatic. But he was hiding a

major drug problem from me. There were violent episodes.

He once choked me in a hotel room while we were on

vacation. He broke my phone. He tried to rip up my passport.

Then on the way home, he dropped to one knee in the

airport and asked me to marry him. That was the pattern.

We’d get in a huge fight, then after a few days he’d ‘love

bomb’ me. He’d say that he needed me. And that he’d never

get better without me. So I’d take him back, and the cycle

would begin all over again. One Monday morning there was a

knock on our door. It was my mother, and she told me that

my sister had been pulled over by the police. She was

battling a drug addiction of her own. They found empty

needles all over her car, and my two-year-old nephew

Robert was placed into foster care. From that moment

on—all I could think about was getting him back. But it was

nearly impossible. I had to complete an eight-week

certification course. I had to rent a two-bedroom apartment

in San Francisco, which I couldn't even afford. And everyone

living with me had to pass a background check. I knew that

my boyfriend had a misdemeanor for domestic violence. So

I had to make a decision: him or Robert. And I chose Robert.

I officially became his foster parent in October of 2018. Ever

since then I’ve been focused on his healing. He can’t

verbalize yet. Sometimes he has tantrums and I just need to

hold him tight. He’s been through a lot of trauma-- so he

needs me. But I needed him too. I’d still be stuck in the cycle

if it wasn’t for Robert. I didn’t know who I was anymore. I

needed to learn to be alone. I needed to learn that chaos

wasn’t normal. The last two years haven’t been easy. The

whole family is chipping in. My mom is working two jobs to

help with rent. Everyone is under a lot of stress. But it’s a lot

of peace too. I’m not walking around on eggshells anymore.

I’m not terrified of being alone. I’m enjoying my solitude.

Last June I got baptized, and I feel like I’m becoming a new

person. My life has a purpose now. Robert's adoption went

through on March 10th. So I’m officially his mother.”

“I was married once before. It was a 300-person wedding in

a massive Catholic church. With a big, grand dress that cost

$1400. It was a fairy tale dream and I thought it was perfect.

But within a year, things started to feel off. He became

increasingly critical of me. And I found myself getting more

and more subdued. Then a year into our marriage, he told

me that he was having an affair. But a few years later I met

Thylar on an app, and right away things felt different. He

accepted things about me that had been rejected in the past.

Superficial stuff-- like TV shows and movies and bands. If I

wanted to put a Dr. Who decal on my car, he wouldn’t

question it. He was even more eccentric than me. Both of us

were coming from a similar place. We’d both dealt with

infidelity in the past, so neither of us were in a rush to get

married. We enjoyed taking things day-by-day. And we

went on like that for two years, until one morning I woke up

to the sound of Thylar groaning. He was kicking his right leg

into the air. When I called 911, the dispatcher told me he was

having a stroke. I rode with him in the back of the ambulance.

He kept pointing at his eyes, then his chest, then at me. He

began squeezing my ring finger, and tapping it. I knew what

he was trying to say, but I just chalked it up to panic. Even

after his recovery, I never brought it up. Because I didn’t

want him to feel pressured. The next summer we held a live

music benefit for his medical bills. After the third song,

Thylar walked up to the microphone. He told everyone that

he’d learned a lot from his experience. And that if you find a

bright spot in this world-- you should hang onto it. Then he

proposed to me in front of all our friends and family. We

were married two months later. It was a spot where we loved

to go hiking. Far off the trail, deep in the woods, beneath

some great arching trees. There were only two witnesses.

And I wore a $75 dress.”

“My brother and I were both placed into foster homes at a

young age. He was lucky—he went to a family called the

Ripleys. I went through four different homes in three years,

and each one was worse than the next. I’d get to see my

brother every few months. Ms. Ripley would take us for

lunch at McDonalds, and that’s when she first noticed the

scars all over my body. She immediately made arrangements

for me to join their family. Back then the word ‘family’ didn’t

mean much to me. But the Ripleys made me feel welcome in

their home. Whenever I did something wrong, Ms. Ripley

would sit me down and explain why it wasn’t OK. But then

she’d say: ‘You’re not going anywhere. Because you belong

to us now.’ Shortly after I joined the family, Mr. Ripley was

diagnosed with cancer. And later that year he passed away.

Ms. Ripley’s entire world fell apart. They’d been high school

sweethearts. And now she was alone with two foster kids.

Nobody would have blamed her for taking us back. But

instead she took us to court and made it permanent. The

three of us moved into a single wide trailer in Mississippi,

and that’s where she raised us. She worked whatever odd

jobs she could find. We never had much, but we went to

movies. We had family game nights. She kept us busy with

little league and Boy Scouts. She must have been super

stressed, but that’s not at all what I remember. I just

remember the affirmation that she gave me. It was always:

‘You’re smart.’ And ‘You’re handsome.’ And ‘You survived

all that stuff because you’re strong.’ She cried when I joined

the Marines, but she knew it was my best chance for a

college education. And eventually I graduated from law

school. Last year I had a daughter of my own. And that really

put me into an emotional tailspin. Because I realized how

every little choice I make is going to affect her future. And

then I started thinking about how different my life could have

been. Because my early development had been the opposite

of what a child’s should be. I should be broken, but I’m not.

Because thirty years ago my Mom decided to keep me. And

somehow, despite all her sadness and heartbreak, she

poured enough love into me so that I could heal.”

“He wasn’t my type. He was nerdy. He was wearing

Converse. And he talked like a robot. But it had been over a

year since anyone had paid attention to me. And I was

enjoying our conversation. I never told him that I had a

daughter. For one afternoon, I didn’t want to be the young,

single mother. And it was nice. It was nice to feel wanted

again. When he asked if we could go out sometime, I didn’t

even hesitate. But I started feeling nervous as soon as I got

home. Because I started thinking about all the places a date

could lead, and I knew I had to tell him. So I sent him a text.

It said: ‘You should know I have a daughter. Things aren’t

good with her father. I’m not asking you to fill that role, but
if you want to cancel the date-- we can.’ There were twenty

minutes of silence. And then he replied: ‘It is what it is.’ Just

like a robot. Then he wrote: ‘If the date sucks, we never have

to talk again.’ We made plans to meet at a famous brunch

place. They didn’t even serve alcohol, which made

everything twice as awkward. We agreed to take it slow. And

to just have fun with things. He made it very clear that he

wasn’t in a place where he wanted to be a dad. And that

remained his official stance for about three months, until he

met her. It’s been over two years now. So he’s been there

her entire life. They’re obsessed with each other. She

constantly wants to talk with him about everything. She

wants me to call him when she farts. She wants to be a

Wildcat fan because he went to Arizona. And when we find a

shell on the beach, she’ll pick it up. But it’s always for

him—not me. And he loves that little girl. But that’s not

surprising. What’s surprising is that he loves me. Roo is easy

to love. She’s so young. She doesn’t withdraw or want space.

She doesn’t have scars. She’s never been abandoned. She

accepts love without question, and she gives it without

question. They love each other so much. So much that it

makes me nervous. Sometimes I’ll ask him: ‘Do you just love
me because you don’t want to lose her?’ And he’ll say: ‘No.

I love her a ton, and I love you a ton.’ He always says it very

calmly. Just like a robot.”

“I heard the rumor from a random girl in school. She told me

that my boyfriend had gotten another girl pregnant. He’d

cheated on me before—so I assumed it was true. But for a

while he denied everything. Then he shifted to blaming the

girl. Her name was Stacie. And as the story often goes, I

turned all my hatred and hurt toward her. We literally never

spoke. And my boyfriend would talk her down every chance

he got. I’d occasionally see her when she dropped the baby
off at the house. I’d feel such hatred every time the doorbell

would ring. She was always so well put-together. There was

this unapproachable air about her. Like she was better than

everyone else. Worst of all—she had this connection with my

boyfriend that I didn’t have. My jealousy created a monster

inside of me. I withdrew from everyone. Then one year later

I got pregnant myself. I didn’t feel any excitement. Instead

there was a moment of clarity. I couldn’t raise a child with

this man. He was a pathological liar. For weeks I went

back-and-forth. Do I get an abortion? Do I give the child up

for adoption? Then one day I made the decision to become a

single mother. I remember being so scared. And the first

person I thought of was Stacie. It was like: ‘My God, I’ve

vilified this woman for so long. And now I’m her. And she is

me.’ I picked up my phone and sent her a text. I apologized

for everything. And I asked for her support. That was eleven

years ago. But we still love to joke about how our horrible

taste in men when we were young brought us together.

Stacie is my best friend in the world. She’s my person. Our

daughters know each other as sisters. At times she’s been

my roommate, my biggest confidant, and my maid of honor.

Sometimes I think back to those early days, watching her

walk up the driveway. I think about all the hatred I would feel.

And now it’s her hugs that I need when I’m feeling upset.

There have been some bad episodes in my life. But every

time I’m down, she shows up. The doorbell will ring on a

random Tuesday. At 4 PM. And when I open up the

door—there she is. And she’ll give me the biggest hug.”

“It drove my mom crazy. The minute I got home, I was right

in front of the computer. But video games were the only

place I fit in. I was never very popular in school—even though

I wanted to be. But things were different online. People

respected the way I played. Back then it was mostly

Warcraft III—and I was good at it. I wasn’t ranked at the top

or anything, but I had over 1800 wins. Most people didn’t

even believe I was a girl. One night I was randomly paired

with a player named SirFishingKill, and we stomped the

other team. We overran their bases with a giant army of

crypt fiends and frost wyrms. Then we played another game.

And another. Until before long we were playing almost every

night. Our conversations were mainly about strategy, but

gradually we learned more about each other. His name was

Patrick. He was eighteen. And he only lived a few hours

away in Toronto. During one of our talks I asked if he wanted

to meet. At first he was reluctant because I don’t think he

believed I was a girl. But when I visited Toronto with a group

of friends, he agreed to meet us at Union Station. I had no

idea what he looked like. I just knew he had blonde hair and

blue eyes. So when I finally found him, I kinda clammed up. It

was like: ‘Oh my God, this guy is cute.’ We spent hours

walking around the city. We went to the top of the CN tower.

And after that day, our conversations became much more

frequent. We’d have these long chats every night. I’d rush to

my computer the moment I got home. It felt nice. To get to

talk to someone. Even if it was about my stupid day. Patrick

was the first boyfriend I’d ever had— even if our relationship

was mostly online. He broke me out of my shell. I wasn’t the

girl who stared at her shoes anymore. Somebody cared what

I had to say. The relationship only lasted seven months. We

were so young, and there was no way long distance would

work. But my new sense of confidence stayed with me. And

several years later, when we reconnected as adults,

everything just clicked. We got married in 2017. It wasn’t a

total gamer wedding. Nobody dressed like elves or anything.

But we did play some World of Warcraft tavern music at the

reception.”
“I’d been living a reckless life. I was stealing a lot. I was

dabbling in drugs. I’d gotten to the point where I had no

hope and no faith. Eventually I was admitted to a psychiatric

hospital because of a suicide attempt. My parents came to

visit me. We’d never seen eye-to-eye. But they told me:

‘Come home and we’ll pretend nothing happened.’ It was a

toxic thing to say, but I was relieved to have any sort of

support. We’d always been a military family. So even though

I wanted to go to college, I saw enlisting in the Air Force as

the only way to redeem myself. The recruiter told me that I

needed to lose 70 lbs in three months. But I was determined.

I started working out three times a day. I became addicted to

counting calories. And it was during this period that I met

Irina. We were working at the same restaurant. One night we

were folding napkins together, and I sort of just poured out

my whole life story. She didn’t seem to mind. We began to

hang out quite a bit. She started taking me to church with

her. She’d come to the gym with me every day. And even

though she was in much better shape, she’d always run at

my pace. She supported me every step of the way. She even

came with me when I got a tattoo to cover up the scars from

my suicide attempt. Everything seemed to be on track. But

on the day of my final weigh-in, I was .2 lbs over. Standing

on that scale—I actually felt a sense of peace. My recruiter

told me to try again next week, but I turned her down. I knew

I didn’t want to be in the Air Force. My parents were so

disappointed that they told me not to come home. That night

Irina and I sat in a park for two hours. She told me: ‘I’m

always here for you. And so is my family.’ If it wasn’t for her

and the church, I’d probably be in a hospital bed right now.

Either that or I wouldn’t be here at all. But instead I’m about

to graduate with a social work degree. Irina and I are living

our dreams together. We’re roommates. Both of us are

youth group leaders. And both of us are working as

addiction counselors. I’m finally living life on my own terms.

I want to be the person that I needed when I was a kid-- the

person that Irina was for me.”

“He could be loving. At least for a couple weeks, a month

maybe. But then his pain pill prescription would run out, and

things would get very tense. We were constantly walking on

eggshells. Occasionally there’d be a flash of violence, but I’d

only see some of that. Because my mom would always

defuse the situation. She played the role of the nurturing

wife—making his dinner, rubbing his feet, doing things

around the house. One night when I was fourteen, I was

getting ready for bed when I heard a loud thud. It was an

intentional overdose. He flatlined on the way to the hospital,

and he only survived because of the paramedics. A month

later my mother found drugs again, and finally kicked him

out of the house. She started working three jobs to support

us. She’d get up at 5 in the morning to do janitorial work.

Then she’d go to the library. And then the grocery store. But

she still found time to encourage me in my schoolwork and

support me through university. Recently I finished my first

year as a resident physician, and my mom came out for a

visit. We rented a cabin in the middle of nowhere. We spent

hours in the hot tub every night. And I’m not sure

why—maybe it was the wine-- but she chose that moment

to tell me about her life. She confessed that she regretted

staying with my father for so long. But that she didn’t feel

like she had a choice. She’d been raised in a religious

environment—where the wife is expected to stay. And my

father had been so much more controlling than I’d realized.

She told me that he wouldn’t allow her to study. Or get a job.

Or buy anything—even for us. He never allowed her to be the

‘fun’ parent or the ‘smart’ parent. And if she ever pushed

back—it could get physical. But we never saw it, because

she shielded us from everything. For my entire life, I’d seen

her defer to my dad on everything. Every bill. Every decision.

She wouldn’t even drive on the highway. It was always him.

She had never seemed like she was in control. But I was too
young to know what was happening. What she was

sheltering us from. And what she eventually got us away

from. I had never realized that she’d been the strong one the

entire time.”
“We were eighteen months apart. Jenny sometimes said

that it felt like I was the big sister, and she was the little--

instead of the other way around. Maybe it’s because I was

the more confident one. I was always pushing her to do

things. Especially after she got sick. During the last couple

years-- I felt like it was my responsibility to make her happy.

I wanted her to live as much as possible. The bucket list was

my idea, but she chose the items. She wanted to ride a horse.

And get a makeover. And swim in the waterfalls of Hawaii,

which we got to do. She also wanted to go to Thailand, but

we never made it. Maybe I pushed her too much. Maybe she

needed more space. But I just felt so strongly that she

needed to experience all these things. One of the items on

her list was to get a dog, but she kept finding reasons to

delay. It never felt like the right time. But when it became

clear that the chemo wasn’t going to work, my mom and I

decided it couldn’t wait any longer. Jet came over for two

nights on a trial run, and Jenny fell in love. He followed her

everywhere. Right away he knew that she was his person.

When she became too sick to move, he’d only get out of her

bed to pee. Then he’d jump right back in. Looking back-- I

should have known we were getting close. But it still took me

by surprise. Everything happened so quickly. She couldn’t

speak in the final days. But I remember telling her that I

loved her, and she said it back: by squeezing my hand three

times. I promised her that we’d go to Thailand. And I

promised her that we’d take care of Jet. We had to lock him

in the backyard when they came to get her body. He barked

the entire time. I wanted to bring him home so badly, but I

told my mom to keep him. I knew she needed him more than

me. But she was thinking the same thing—and insisted that

I take him. We’ve been together for over two years now. And

I’m probably too obsessed with him. I can’t stay out late

because I hate the thought of him being alone. Whenever I’m

down, or sad, he’s always there. It feels like we’re connected

in a way. Both of us had this unconditional love and loyalty

to Jenny. And both of us lost her. Both of us lost our

person.”
“He had five daughters. And whenever he came home from a

work trip, we’d all line up to give him a kiss. But he always

kissed my mom first, because she was his ‘first love.’ Then

he went on to his ‘second love,’ and his ‘third love.’ On

weekends we’d all pile into the car and take these long road

trips. We’d drive for hours, and the whole way he’d be

singing to my mother. It was a normal thing for us, because

we were used to it. But that kind of affection wasn’t normal

in our culture. We used to have these karaoke parties with

our extended family, and everyone else would sing normal

songs. But Papa would choose these old, romantic

Bollywood songs. And he’d sing directly to Mama. She loved

every second of it. She’d get dressed up for him. She’d put

on her brightest red lipstick. And she’d do her hair just as he

liked it—even after she got sick. The tumor was deep in her

brain. After every surgery, more and more of her would slip

away. When she couldn’t walk properly anymore, she grew

embarrassed of her limp. So Papa held her hand wherever

they went. He’d sit next to her bed, and stroke her cheek,

and recite the Quran until his lips went dry. Some nights he’d

fall asleep sitting up in his chair, but then he’d wake up, and

begin praying again. In her final moments, when she was

slipping away, he leaned close to her and whispered: ‘You

won’t be alone. I’m coming with you.’ I heard him say it. And

I got so angry. It seemed selfish to me—as if the rest of us

weren’t worth living for. But all his children were grown.

Most of us had our own families. And I guess he felt like

there was nothing left for him. Every day he visited Mama’s

grave, even though we told him not to. He applied for the

plot next to her, and every few hours he’d ask if the

cemetery had called. He was obsessed. When the paperwork

finally arrived— I rolled my eyes. But he got very quiet. For

the next two days he barely said a word. Then on the third
morning, he walked in our front door and told me he wasn’t

feeling well. I bent down to help him with his shoes, but he

collapsed on the floor. There wasn’t time for him to suffer.

Because by the time the ambulance arrived, he was already

gone.”
“Both of my parents had this mentality that the most

important thing is your family. Even though we lived in the

housing projects, I never realized that we didn’t have much

money. Every birthday and holiday was a huge celebration. I

always felt safe and protected. One of my earliest memories

is having a fever and being tucked in by my mother. When I

woke up in the middle of the night, she was still there—with

a cold rag on my head. That’s just who she was. It was

always: ‘What else can I do?’ ‘What else can I do to make

them happy?’ And that’s the same way I felt when I had my
own daughter. As fate would have it, I received full custody

at the age of three. I was managing an electronics store at

the time, but I knew I couldn’t be the father I wanted to be if

I was working 60 hours a week. So I took a job making half

as much money. But when my little girl looked at me and

said: ‘I love you Dad,’ money didn’t matter. I wouldn’t get

that same feeling if I scratched a million-dollar lotto. I’d

have loved to have a big family, but it wasn’t in the cards.

It’s always just been me and my daughter. She was my goal

in life. I wanted everyone who saw her to think: ‘Wow, she is

so well taken care of.’ When she went to school, I studied

YouTube videos so that I could do her braids. It looked like a

mess the first time I tried. It was just a bunch of hair twisted

together. But after a few weeks, I could have opened my

own salon. I was experimenting with different styles. And

other parents were saying: ‘Wow! Her hair looks so great.’

Nobody knew her dad was doing it. My daughter grew into

such a wonderful person. It’s been so wonderful for me to

see. But I’ll tell you the greatest reward I was ever given.

When my daughter was six or seven, we were playing on the

ground playing with her dolls. And my mother was watching

us. She was sitting on the couch, and suddenly she started
crying. ‘You’re such a good father, she told me. ‘You should

be so proud.’ And I still get goosebumps thinking about that.

Can you imagine? This woman was my idol. She was the

greatest mother in the world. And for her to say something

like that—it was like getting a compliment from God.”

“I had very thick hair as a child, so I hated getting my hair

combed. The first time my mother took me to the salon, I

screamed bloody murder. So for the rest of my childhood

she did my hair herself. And it always looked good. I grew to

believe that my hair was my best quality. I could have on my

best make-up, and my best outfit, but if my hair wasn’t done

right—the whole thing was off. After college my boyfriend

discovered the first bald spot on the back of my head. Soon

afterwards I was diagnosed with an auto-immune condition.

The doctor told me that I could eventually lose all of my hair.

I was devastated. I immediately called my mother—and she

told me we were going to fight it. We prayed and prayed. We

kept finding new oils and new shampoos. But the bald spot

only grew bigger. My mother started doing my hair again--

just like when I was a kid. And whenever a new spot

appeared, she’d invent a new style to hide it. For the longest

time no one knew. But it was so much stress. I’d panic if

someone was behind me in the elevator. Dating was the

worst. It was like: ‘Oh my gosh. How am I going to keep this

a secret?’ Some mornings I’d call my mom in a moment of

desperation. I’d tell her: ‘I can’t do this anymore. I’m going

to shave it off.’ But she’d talk me out of it. She’d tell me:

‘Don’t worry. We’re going to figure this out.’ But we never

did. It only got worse and worse. By the age of thirty-one I

was in a really dark place. And I decided to go on a fast

because I needed some clarity from God. And that’s when I

made the decision. The first person I told was my mom.

She’d been telling me not to do it for so long—because she

was scared too. But I needed her to be OK with it. I needed

her to finish this journey with me. Everyone in the hair salon

was nervous. The person in the next chair was nervous. Even

the hairdresser was nervous. She was like: ‘Do you really

want to do this?’ But then she took out the clippers, and

began to shave it off. My mother was the first one to break

the silence. After the first pass of the clippers, she looked

closely at my head. And then she announced to the whole

salon: ‘It’s going to look good!’”

“We were the first ones in our friend group to have kids. And

it made me feel old—inadequate, maybe. I didn’t feel ready

for the responsibility. I began staying out late on the

weekends, trying to recapture something I had in my

twenties. Before long I was sneaking an odd beer at work.

Then another. And another. Until eventually I was hiding

empty bottles in the cupboard to avoid getting caught. I was

a good dad when I was present. Even though I felt like

rubbish-- I’d wake up on the weekends and do things with

my daughter. But I’d direct us to things that were easy for

me. I’d suggest we watch TV instead of playing games that

she wanted to play. Then I’d pass out right alongside her at

8 PM. We’d wake up the next morning, and I’d have this

horrible booze breath. But she’d always roll over and say: ‘Hi

Dad, I love you.’ I felt like dirt every single time. And I’d think:

‘That’s it. I’m done.’ But soon the hangover would wear off,

and I’d find myself grabbing another beer after work. After

one particularly bad binge, I stumbled across the story of a

news reader who’d gotten sober through a program called

Hello Sunday Morning. I signed up to quit for three months,

and when it was over I felt so much better. Not since I was a

kid had I felt this good. I’d get down on the floor while my

daughter played with her dolls. And I’d done that even while

I was drinking, but normally I’d be scrolling on my phone,

waiting for the game to be over. Now I wanted to play. I was

seeing the game from her point of view. Being creative.

Spurring her on. I’d read books with her for hours. We read

all the Roald Dahl books, and the Hobbit books, and the

Harry Potter books. I wasn’t too drunk to drive anymore. So

we’d go to the beach. Or on a bush walk. My friends would

still go out drinking after work. So it wasn’t easy to stay

sober. But I kept a video on my phone of my daughter

dancing. And whenever I started to crack, I’d pull it out. It’s

been over 2000 days now. I’m fitter and healthier and

happier than I’ve ever been in my life. And it’s all because of

my daughter. She has a little brother now. He’s never known

me drunk—not even in the womb. And I’m determined that

he never will.”
“One of my earliest memories is sitting in a sand box and

watching the other kids play. I could see their mouths

moving but couldn’t hear what they were talking about. They

seemed so happy. And I desperately wanted to participate.

But my deafness kept me in a glass cage. I was never able to

verbally speak. And whenever I tried to reach out—I’d be

forgotten quickly. During recess I’d sit alone and read my

books, because it hurt too much to look at the other kids. In

high school I had an interpreter who predicted I’d never

marry. She said that disabled people were too much of a

burden for abled people. It was a casual remark for her, but

I never forgot it. And the few flings I had as a teenager only

reinforced that belief. None of the guys I dated learned sign

language. They didn’t even try. I think they viewed dating a

deaf girl as more of a novelty than anything. And every time

it didn’t work out, I was left feeling lonelier. I went to college

two hours away. Which wasn’t far—but it was far for me.

And I first met Stuart in my education class. He tried to say

‘hello’ that very first day, but I accidentally ignored him. I

think he figured out the reason once my interpreter showed

up. But he kept smiling at me, and a few days later he slid

me a photo with a note on the back and his email address. I

spent a lot of time looking at that photo, waffling back and

forth about whether I should contact him. But finally I

decided there was nothing to lose. We began spending time

together outside of class. We’d communicate by writing

back and forth in a notebook. I learned all about his life. And

he learned about mine. After a few months of this, I started

to have hope—maybe he was actually interested in my

thoughts. Maybe he liked me for me (not for the novelty of

dating a deaf girl). One night we were watching a scary

movie in my dorm room. We were writing back and forth,

laughing at the cheesy scenes, when suddenly Stuart’s face

grew serious. He wrote that he needed to tell me something.

My heart sank. I thought: This is where he tells me that I’m a

lot of fun, but my deafness is a dealbreaker. But he looked

me in the eyes, took a deep breath, and haltingly began to

sign: ‘Will. You. Be. My. Girlfriend?’”

“A few days before his death, Dad finally let me cut his hair.

He’d been getting $9 haircuts his entire life. But his

barbershop closed during the pandemic, so he finally agreed.

And it was such a God moment. Because a few days later he

had a sudden stroke. And it gave me a little peace to know

that he went to heaven with a haircut I gave him. Dad was a

widely loved man. For most of his career he worked as a

guidance counselor, so his entire job was helping kids figure

out their path in life. And that extended to his own children.

He wanted us to go further than he did, and he wanted us to

get a college degree. Initially he supported my decision to go

to beauty school. He viewed it as a means of paying my way

through college. But I think he was less than thrilled when I

chose to pursue it full time. Especially when I decided that I

didn’t need a college degree. I went straight to work at a

high-end salon, and I ended up being very successful. I was

one of the busiest stylists there. My mom would come in for

an appointment every few weeks, and she’d see how well I

was doing. But my father never came. My mom used to

cover for him. She’d say that he was busy. And he was very

proud of me. But for six years I worked there, and I didn’t

see him once. One night I mentioned to my mother how

much it hurt me. We were drinking quite a bit, so I don’t

remember exactly what I said. And I didn’t think much of it.

But a few days later, I was in the middle of a haircut, and I

saw my father walking down the aisle. My salon was huge.

Three different stories. One hundred employees, so I know

he was intimidated. I’ll never forget the sight of him coming

toward me, in his jean shorts and t-shirt, carrying a bouquet

of flowers. He gave me the biggest hug and said: ‘Mija, I’m

so proud of you. And I’m so sorry it’s taken this long.’”

“My parents were wonderful to us, but terrible to each other.

It came from both sides. It would always start as something

small, but then one of them would bring up the past. And

soon they’d be fighting over their entire history. It was

mostly a lot of loudness. I have distinct memories of doors

being broken and objects being thrown. My older brother

would bring me into his room and tell me stories to distract

me. If I was all alone I’d just hide under the covers. But even

at that age I knew what I wanted. And I made a promise to

myself: my children will never go through this. Greg and I

started dating our freshman year of college. We were so

young. I had no idea how to be in a healthy relationship.

Every time we got in a fight, I’d say it was over. Because

that’s all I knew. My parents were always threatening

divorce. But Greg kept saying: ‘We’re not going to do that.

I’m staying right here.’ He had that kind of maturity—even at

the age of eighteen. I was the immature one. I’d say the

most horrible things to him: ‘I hate you,’ and things like that.

Things I’d heard my parents say. But he never hurt me back.

Not once. I don’t ever tell people that, because it doesn’t

seem possible. But we’ve been together twenty years, and

he’s never said anything hurtful. There have been some

challenging times. We’re raising two daughters. We have a

beautiful son in heaven. So we’ve had our share of

arguments, but I’ve never been insulted. I’ve never been

shamed. He doesn’t bring up things I’ve done wrong in the

past. I always joke with him that I’m the crappy person. I’m

the one who lashes out. I’m the one who talks about people,

and judges, and puts my foot in my mouth. He doesn’t react

like me. He responds. And he’s made me so much better.

Through twenty years of watching him respond, I’ve

improved a little bit each day. Sometimes I wish that I could

go back and comfort my younger self, hiding under the

covers, crying herself to sleep. I’d tell her that it’s hard to

believe—but one day she’ll be grateful for what happened to

her. Because in a few years she’s going to meet someone

wonderful. And because of everything she’s been

through—she’ll know just how wonderful he is.”

“The technician quickly told us that it was a girl. But then

she started taking longer, and finally she asked us to step

into another room. Our doctor delivered the news gently. But

then she sent us to a specialist who wasn’t so gentle. ‘The

measurements are all off,’ they told us. ‘We need to know

how you’d like to manage the pregnancy.’ It was surreal. I

was firm in my decision, but I can empathize with women

who feel like they have no choice. Because in that moment I

doubted that I would ever be able to meet the needs of my

child. She had a condition called ‘skeletal dysplasia.’ Her

bones weren’t growing like they should, and she might not

even survive. I’m usually a fairly private person, but this time
was different. I didn’t care how many people knew. There

were prayer chains and Facebook groups. My friends got

together without me knowing, and they prayed over us. We

received letters from so many people: family overseas,

people we’d lost touch with, people we’d never met. We

hung them all in the bathroom until the entire wall was filled.

But a few weeks before our due date, we received the worst

possible news: Elliana’s chest cavity hadn’t grown enough,

and there wasn’t room for her lungs. I asked the doctor to

give me the odds, but he just shook his head. We began to

plan for her funeral. I could feel Elliana kicking inside me as

we chose her urn and filled out the paperwork. I remember

wanting to stay pregnant forever so that she’d always be

safe. On the day of her birth, the waiting room was filled

with people who loved us. They prayed from 10 AM to 5 AM

the next day. I still keep a picture of that waiting room

hanging in our hallway. And it’s my favorite picture, because

it reminds me of all the people who petitioned for Elliana’s

life. And we got our miracle. I struggle with it sometimes,

because I know so many people lose their babies. But Elliana

came out breathing on her own, and the doctors were in awe.

Eight years later—they’re still in awe. Our story has a happy

ending. But even when it seemed like a tragedy, I never felt

alone. I never felt like the story was my own. Because in my

darkest moments, a community of people chose to share my

burden.”
“The football coach at my college opened his training

program to any athlete who wanted to join-- even women. I

was captain of the volleyball team, so I decided to give it a

try. The program was military style. We woke up at 5 AM.

And Coach Brooks himself was a very intimidating man.

He’d been an All-American lineman in college, and he was

still massive. Everyone called him ‘sir.’ And he didn’t tolerate

misbehavior. But I’ve always loved structure, so I could keep

up. Within weeks Coach Brooks had elevated me to program

captain. He stood me in front of seventy athletes—almost

entirely male. He watched me break the woman’s deadlift

record. And when the quarterback made a comment about

‘lifting girl weight,’ Coach Brooks heard about it. And the

quarterback apologized the next day. That kind of advocacy

gave me a lot of confidence. After graduation I decided to

attend a women’s tackle football game. And as I flipped

through the program, reading the bios of the players, I

realized that none of them had trained with a male college

team. So I emailed the team’s owner and asked about

tryouts. I ended up playing professionally for six years. And

Coach Brooks followed my entire career. He loved that I was

a lineman—just like him. He’d go to our website and check

my stats. He hung our team shirt in his gym, and asked for

another to give his goddaughter. Unfortunately his life was

cut short at the age of 47. It was a routine surgery gone

wrong. When I heard the news, I was so devastated that I

had to leave work early. Only then did I realize the impact

he’d had on me. He didn’t have to give a damn. He didn’t

have to let women in his program. That wasn’t his job. But if

he hadn’t—I’d never have had the confidence to play

football. It’s too much sacrifice. I have seventeen pieces of

metal in my leg. And I’m not paid to do this. Almost no

women are paid to play any freaking sport. So when I had to

dig deep, and find a reason to go on, I thought back to my

time with Coach Brooks. After his death, I called his old

college to find some pictures of him on the field. And that

year, when we won the world championship, it was his

number I was wearing on my chest.”

“I was raised by my grandmother. And any little thing could

trigger her. One time I got mad and told her: ‘You’re not my

mom.’ I was only six years old. But she put me on an airplane

to go live with my mother for a month, who I didn’t even

know. My grandfather James had to drop me off at the

airport-- and both of us were sobbing. But he didn’t have

any say in the matter because he wasn’t my biological

grandfather. James was my grandmother’s second husband,

and she abused him as much as she did me. He had been

given two medals during World War II, which he kept in his
dresser-- but he wasn’t the ‘alpha male type.’ My

grandmother walked all over him. But James was the only

source of kindness that I ever had. When my grandparents

got divorced, we moved into a small apartment together. He

became more of a roommate than a father. During the week

he’d go to work. And I’d go to school. Then on Saturday

nights we’d get dinner together. There wasn’t much

guidance. We didn’t have critical conversations. He was just

a nice guy— that was it. But right before I graduated high

school he was admitted to the hospital with chest pains. And

I was fishing around in his wallet for an insurance card, when

an old black-and-white photo fell out. It was a picture of a

young man in uniform. I asked James if it was him, and he

said: ‘No, that’s Leatherwood.’ He then told me a story

about how he’d fallen sick during the war, and a young man

named Hilliard Leatherwood had taken his place. Soon

afterward Leatherwood was captured by the Germans and

executed. My grandfather always felt like it should have

been him instead. He felt like he owed Leatherwood a debt,

and he’d been carrying that photo for 50 years. For a brief

moment I was given a window into a whole different man.

One that had lived an entire life before I was born. My

grandfather passed away on Thanksgiving Day 2002. He’d

been the only adult member of my family that hadn’t

rejected me. And without him I don’t know where I’d be

today. I keep that picture of Leatherwood with me, to

remember the man who saved my grandfather. And to honor

how my grandfather saved me.”

“Mom and him are obsessed with each other. They met

when they were eighteen. And they’re always hugging, and

kissing, and dancing in the kitchen. So we grew up around a

lot of love. But Dad has always been more of the ‘Acts of

Service’ type. Every night at 8pm, he’d come to all our

bedrooms to collect dishes that needed to be washed. And

he always took the morning shift. It was his job to wake us

up, and make us breakfast, and pack our lunches for school.

He’d use a little brown paper bag, and draw a heart on the

front with our name inside. He made thousands of these

bags, and they always included a stick figure drawing. It

might be a picture of me scoring a soccer goal, or joining a

club, or getting a part in a school play. Sometimes it would

be an inside joke of some sort. He especially loved to quote

Disney movies. Mulan most of all. But we were never

embarrassed. Our friends loved the bags too. Everyone

loves our dad. When my sister’s friend decided to become a

baker, he’s the one who tasted everything she made. And

when my best friend got benched on our soccer team, Dad

wrote her a letter to build her confidence. That’s how he is

with everyone. And he’s still that way, even with everything

that’s happened. We began to notice the shaking at the end

of last year. Then there started to be long pauses. And

difficulty remembering. He was diagnosed with ALS, and the

doctors have given him 2 to 5 years to live. He didn’t even

cry when he found out. But he’d tear up every time he had to

tell another friend or family member. Because he knew how

much we’d hurt. It’s such a devastating disease. It’s really

painful to watch someone we love so much go through this.

He still runs every morning—he wants everyone to know that.

But that will go one day. And so will his voice. And so will his

hands. I know he’s really scared of that. He doesn’t want to

lose his hands, because that’s how he’s always shown his

love. When my youngest brother graduated from high school

this year, we made my dad his own brown paper bag. We

drew a picture of the three of us holding him up. And we

wrote our favorite quote from Mulan: “The greatest gift and

honor-- is having you for a father.”

“From the outside I was a great student. I participated in

everything: sports, music, you name it. Plus I’d gotten

‘straight A’s’ since elementary school. But there was a side

of me that I kept hidden. Even as a kid, I’d been good at

being sneaky-- if I took some cookies from the cupboard,

I’d put the package back exactly like it was. When I grew

older, the behaviors became riskier. I started partying and

being promiscuous. With each encounter I’d get a rush of

dopamine, but I’d end up feeling lower than when I began.

Self-worth is something that I always struggled with. My

depression got so bad in high school that I began to

self-harm. I even went so far as to write out a suicide note in

my journal. But I was so good at hiding that nobody ever

knew. I seemed like a happy kid. My parents never saw

anything that couldn’t be dismissed as teenage angst. And

my marching band instructor even nicknamed me ‘Smiley.’

But there were small signs. On my¬ worst days I’d put my

headphones on during class, and lay my head on the desk.

Then there was a time in British Literature class when we

were given a poetry assignment, and I wrote about drowning.

Our teacher’s name was Mrs. Hunt. She was the nurturing

type. And she always treated us like adults. The day after I

wrote the poem, she pulled me aside after class. ‘Should I be

worried?’ she asked. I lied, of course, and said that I was fine.

But then she asked me again, and I broke down. ‘I think I

have depression,’ I told her. She didn’t blink an eye. She

asked permission to send my parents an email. She let me

read the whole thing, and I told her to send it. Later that

night my parents initiated a conversation about my mental

health. It was the first time we’d really spoken about it. A

few days later we found a professional and I began taking

medication. I’ve come so far since writing that poem. I

graduated with two degrees. I’ve gotten married. And I’m

about to begin my Master’s in Education. I’m hoping to

become the same kind of teacher as Mrs. Hunt. When I

needed it most, she recognized my cries for help. She

handled them with grace. And I’m not sure if I’d still be here

if it wasn’t for her.”

“I’ve blacked a lot of it out. But I do remember that recess

was a nightmare for me. My mom told me later that she

would sometimes hide in the bushes, and when she saw me

sitting by myself, she’d start crying. The diagnosis was

‘selective mutism.’ I’d get so anxious around people that I

physically couldn’t speak. I’d get a rock in my throat, and it

would feel like that moment right before you faint—when

everything sounds so far away. It could be lonely at school. I

was the only student with a full-time aide. I was the only one

who held up a sign when the teacher called attendance. It

doesn’t feel good to be different. But my parents did

everything they could to minimize that feeling. Every night

before I went to sleep, my mother would say: ‘You’re a

terrific kid, and I love being your Mommy.’ When my school

had a Halloween parade, she knew I’d be too anxious to do it

alone. So she dressed up as Minnie Mouse and marched

right alongside me. She was always very attentive to my

emotions. But she was also a lawyer so she made sure that

my rights were being respected. She knew that the

Individuals With Disabilities Education Act promised a ‘free

appropriate public education.’ And that’s exactly what she

wanted for me. She once shut down my entire elementary

school for an in-service day, and the entire faculty was

taught to ask me ‘yes or no’ questions so that I could nod in

reply. She wanted me in a mainstream classroom, having

mainstream experiences. So that I would never be left

behind. And by the time I hit 5th grade, I was able to speak.

It didn’t happen all at once. But I grew more and more

confident. I got better at making friends. I joined the debate

team in high school. Recently I graduated from Cornell and

completed my senior thesis on disability rights—which I

defended verbally. All of this was possible because of my

mother. She was beside me the entire time. I took the LSAT
in January, and even though the test was five hours long, my

mom waited in the lobby. She gave me the biggest hug when

I walked out. When I asked her why she didn’t leave, she said:

‘I don’t know. I just wanted to be here. In case you needed

anything at all.’”
“I’d never had a serious boyfriend before. I certainly wasn’t

engaged. But when Dad started to get really sick, we

decided to have a daddy-daughter dance. We did it during

my cousin’s wedding. My dad chose the song: ‘If I Didn’t

Have You,’ by Amanda Marshall. When he passed away I

engraved my favorite lyric from the song onto a necklace,

along with a copy of his thumbprint. Dad had been my very

best friend, and after his death I couldn’t get out of bed for

months. Everyone kept promising that things would get

better, but I felt completely lost. I think the travelling began

as a way to find myself again. I went to Ireland, and Norway,

and Jamaica. Then in 2018 I took a trip to Cambodia to visit

a friend who was teaching there, and that’s when I

discovered the green dress. It was in a small shop. And it

seemed like a perfect bridesmaid’s dress for an upcoming

wedding. Since I didn’t have any cash on me, I took a photo

of the dress, and I texted it to my friend once I got home to

Canada. Unfortunately it was a wrong number. The message

got sent to a completely random guy. His name was Sean.

He was on a work visa from Scotland. And we ended up

having a funny little back-and forth. The girls at my office

were egging me on, so we kept up our conversation for

several days. We seemed to have a lot in common, so

eventually we decided to meet at Starbucks. And to be

honest I wanted it to work. My entire life people had been

assuring me that it would be effortless when I met ‘The

One.’ And what could be more effortless than a wrong

number? There was instant chemistry between us. We took

a walk after our coffee, and ended up spending three hours

together. We went on several more dates over the next few

months. Sean met all my friends and family, and all of them
kept saying the same thing: ‘He is so much like your father.’

We’ve been together for two years now. And not only have I

grown to love him, but Sean has taught me how to love

myself. Last month we were finally married. Sean wore a kilt.

And I wore the green dress, along with the necklace with my

father’s thumbprint. On the back were the lyrics of our song,

only now the words had new meaning: ‘This Love Is a Gift.’”
“Grandma once broke up a knife fight in the neighborhood.

She was quite proud of that. She kept the knife in a drawer

as a trophy, and would tell the story to anyone who’d listen.

Grandma was also very Italian. And very Catholic. She loved

watching mass on the television, rosary in hand. And she

loved the lottery. Big, big fan of the lottery. She was always

on the lookout for numbers to play. Inspiration could come

from anywhere: license plates, street numbers, radio

stations. Then every night she’d watch the numbers roll out

on Channel 8. But she hardly ever won. She used to split her

winnings between her grandchildren, and it was never much.

A couple bucks here and there. I remember getting $10 one

time. Grandma was 89 when she passed away. On the day

that she died I found a penny wedged into the sole of my

shoe. Just a coincidence, I’m sure. But then I start finding

pennies everywhere. But they’re pennies, right? They’re

supposed to be everywhere, so maybe I was just grasping

for signs. My academic advisor knew I was feeling sad, so

she suggested that I study abroad. Of course I wanted to go

to Italy, but even with scholarships it was like $10,000 more

than regular tuition- so I didn’t even want to ask my parents.

Fast forward a few months to Grandma’s birthday, when my

family forces me to go to a remembrance mass. I’m not

super religious so I’m sitting there the whole time thinking:

‘This is such bullshit.’ But then that night I had the craziest

dream. I’m at a Cumberland Farms gas station near my

house, scratching off a lottery ticket, and suddenly I start

laughing because I won a bunch of money. The next day I

text my friends that we’ve got to buy a lottery ticket. And

when I met up with my friend Cassie after work that night,

we headed straight to Cumberland Farms. I bought one lotto

ticket. $5 Diamonds. I’d barely ever played before, and I’d

certainly never bought a $5 scratch off. As soon as we got

back to the car, I grabbed a penny and started scratching.

Beyonce’s ‘Halo’ was playing on the radio. When I get to the

third row of numbers, BAM. I had a match. $10,000. Enough

to cover one whole semester in Florence.”

“I have two sons with the same condition. But Connolly had

the toughest road, because he’s the oldest. And he had to

figure everything out himself. I think it was around 4th grade

when kids started calling him ‘Baldy’ on the playground.

Some days he’d come home crying and say things like: ‘‘I

miss my hair.’ That’s when the mama bear would come out.

I wanted to fix the problem so badly. I knew a couple of the

kids who were responsible, so I wanted to go to his school

and speak to them. Never in a punitive way, but just to give

them some information. But every time I offered, Connolly

would tell me that it wasn’t necessary. He’s always been so

self-assured, so he’d promise me that he was OK. His mind

changed on the day when he wasn’t picked for a team at

recess. He’s one of the most athletic kids in his class—so he

knew it was for other reasons. And on the way home from

school, he told me: ‘I’m ready for you to come in now.’ We

worked together to make a presentation. There were four

different classes in his fourth grade, and we gave a speech

to each of them. We stood up there together. I spoke first

because I wanted to get out a few key pieces of information:

‘Alopecia is an autoimmune disease where your body rejects

your hair. It’s not cancer. And it’s not contagious.’ But after

that we’d open it up to questions, and that’s when Connolly

took over. And wouldn’t you know—the kids who had picked

on him were the ones raising their hands the highest. After

that day, all the negative comments stopped. He finished

elementary school without an issue, and he’s moving on to

middle school with a strong group of advocates. My main

worry now is his younger brother Damon, who just started

kindergarten. He’s a bit more reserved than Connolly. He’s

so sensitive and tender in that little boy way. And one day he

came home crying because one of the kids had called him

‘Baldy.’ Connolly walked over, put his arm around Damon,

and said: ‘Don’t worry, you’re just dealing with people who

don’t understand.’ Then he turned to me and said: ‘I think

it’s time we all gave an alopecia talk to Damon’s class.’”

“I’ve never seen the man read a book in his entire life. One

time I saw his high school report card—and the only class he

got an ‘A’ in was gym. His parents never had any money. So

right after school he got a job stocking produce at a local

food market. The owners realized that he had a knack for

numbers, so they promoted him to manager at the age of

twenty. He met my mother at the store. They got married.

And not long afterward I came along. For as long as I can

remember, the store has been a huge part of his life. He

worked six days a week. He saved enough money to buy out

the other owners. But it was never an obsession or anything.

Whenever he was home with us, he was fully present. His

family was his sweet spot. He never needed to hang out with

his buddies. He was madly in love with my mom. And his idea

of a good time was spending time with his kids. I used to

think that dad was just a ‘family man.’ But as I got older, I

realized that his ‘family’ extended to the folks who worked

for him. Nobody ever leaves our store. We have fifteen

managers-- and the newest one started ten years ago. Our

employees stick around because my dad has always taken

care of them. He has their back—through divorces,

parenting issues, health problems. One of our managers has

a brain condition, and my dad’s the one who drives him to

the appointments. Sometimes he’s too generous. He’s been

burned before. But he kinda doesn’t care. The man has a

handwritten note from Mother Teresa because of all the

food he’s given away. If you came into the store today, you’d

find him stocking produce—just like he was doing when he

was eighteen. He loves to tell people that he works for his

children, and that we can fire him at any time. Everyone

thinks he’s joking. But he’s not. On the day my dad got full

ownership of the store, he signed over everything to his four

kids. I was in the room when it happened. His lawyers and

accountants tried to talk him out of it. They told him: ‘You’re

giving away everything. You’ll never be able to stop

working.’ And he replied: ‘I was poor when I started this

thing. And that’s how I plan on leaving.’”

“I remember feeling the life come out of my body the

moment I hit the bottom of the pool. I floated there— unable

to move. We’d been drinking all night. So at first my friends

thought I was joking. But finally they pulled me out and laid

me on the ground. One of them grabbed my hand. And I

couldn’t feel it. Not long afterwards I lost consciousness.

When I woke at the hospital-- the first person I saw was my

sister Aleya. She’s four years younger than me, and I can still

remember the day she was born. One of my first memories is

holding her in my arms, feeling so proud, knowing that she’d

always be my little sister. Growing up we never had much. So

I guess we found comfort in spending time with each other.

Her favorite thing to do was sleep on the couch in my room.

She was always a bit more shy, so I tried to push her along.

After our parents split we had to fend for ourselves a lot.

And even as a young boy, I knew that a five-year-old girl

needs a lot of affection. So I did my best. I pretended that

Hannah Montana was cool-- because I knew that everything

I said was true to her. Both of us were robbed of normal

childhoods. I know that she struggled in her early teens. One

night she looked at me, and asked: ‘How come you’re not

fucked up like me?’ And it really broke my heart. That wasn’t

long before my injury. And after I got hurt, it’s like we

switched places. Suddenly I was the one who felt ready to

give up, but she wouldn’t let that happen. I think my

paralysis made her realize something: ‘You have to cherish

what you have.’ And she’s really pushed that mindset onto

me. She’s always reminding me to focus on the things that I

have. There’s so much to be grateful for. The Canadian

government pays for my apartment and healthcare. My

friends held a fundraiser so that I could get a handicapped

van. I’ve even gone back to school. There’s so much

assistive technology-- I can do design work with my mouth.

And most importantly I have a sister I can talk to every day.

Who knows me. And gets me. And shares the same deep

roots. Someone who pushes me and tells me that she’s

proud of me. And who makes me want to give back in the

same way she gives to me.”

“They opened her up and found nothing but cancer. But

even then she didn’t give up. She promised that she wasn’t

done fighting. But it became a different kind of fight. It

wasn’t easy. She was hooked up to a feeding tube. But she

walked so beautifully toward death. She kept a photo album

next to her bed. But instead of photos, she kept notecards

with Bible verses. She said that her entire life she had

thought she loved Jesus. But that now she really loved Jesus.

I never once saw her depressed. There were sad moments,

but even those were peaceful. And sometimes she’d laugh

so hard it would physically hurt. Every day she told me I was

beautiful. She’d said it before, but not like this. It was so

intentional. And then there were the videos. She recorded

videos for the big moments in our lives: graduation, our 21st

birthday, our wedding, our first child. Over the years those

videos became so precious to me. They’re not very long--

just a few minutes each. She opens each one with a greeting.

She’ll congratulate me on the stage of life I just hit. And say

how sad she is to not be there. Then she’ll give me some

advice. It’s very personalized. She’ll say: ‘I know you

struggle with X, Y, and Z, so always remember this.’ Ever

since I got married two years ago, I’ve known there was one

video left. And it’s always given me comfort-- knowing it

was there. So it was bittersweet when my daughter was born

on June 27th. My husband and I watched the final video

together. It was harder than I expected. She was sicker than

the other videos. She spoke really slowly. She talked about

how I’d always loved babies, even as a child. And she said

that she wished she could be there to cuddle my baby. She

talked about my childhood—where I struggled, and where I

excelled. And she ended by saying: ‘Love and encourage

your babies. They will grow up quickly. So hug them. And

pray for them.’ And that was it. She told me that she loved

me and said goodbye. For years I’d been dreading that

moment. But it felt strangely peaceful. Like I was ready.

Ready to take up this role. It’s my turn to have a daughter

now. To love her. And to be purposeful with her, just like my

mom was purposeful with me.”

“Before she passed, she told my dad that she wanted him to

fall in love again. ‘I’m going to find you the perfect woman,’

she said. ‘She’s going to love my daughters. Dad was a

cross country skier so he loved the snow, but Mom was the

opposite. Her dream was to move to Florida, so she covered

our house in dolphins and palm trees. I was thirteen when

she lost her battle to cancer, and I think I’ve blacked a lot of

it out. But I remember Dad put up a good front. He was

raising two girls on his own, but he never missed a recital or

practice. He cooked all the same meals that Mom cooked.

And kept all of her holiday traditions. He didn’t date again

for more than a year, when he was introduced to Tracy by

his friends in the ski community. Tracy was a serious skier.

She’d won the Michigan Cup nine times. But most

importantly she was also a widow. Her husband had passed

away around the same time as my mom. When they had their

first date, Tracy and my dad reserved a table for four-- in

honor of their spouses. At first I wasn’t thrilled to see him

dating again. But even my fourteen-year-old brain could

see that he was happier. He was smiling more, and singing

again. And Tracy was so gracious. She understood grief so

she did everything right. She always asked about our mom.

She honored all of her birthdays and death dates. She never

tried to erase her memory. When we moved in together,

Tracy decorated the house with things that my mother loved.

She hung up old family photos. Both my mother and Tracy

were crazy about holidays, so we got two trees every

Christmas: one for Tracy’s collection of ornaments, and one

for my mother’s. Three years ago Tracy finally married my

dad. Those two stinkers had been engaged for nine years,

but they finally did it. And the next year Tracy officially

adopted us. It was a beautiful ceremony. We did it right

before Christmas so we could celebrate over the holidays.

Tracy held it together the entire time. But at one point the

judge said: ‘In the eyes of the law, it will be as if you gave
birth to these children.’ And that’s when she started sobbing

with joy.”