Lisa Williams Kline
While Jeff and I stand there, I have the same recurring thought as always: that the leaves of the oak tree beside Dad’s grave will move in the breeze, indicating that Dad knows I am here and is greeting me.
I didn’t agree. It was worth it. I’d try harder. I could be whatever it was she needed me to be. I’d hang on. I wouldn’t give up. She was my daughter. I didn’t want to lose her. I’d already lost too much.
And then I asked myself the question my daughter must have pondered before telling me what Mitchell did—the question generations of women have asked themselves: Is it worth it?
Am I really Medea, sorceress of Greek and Roman myth, who sacrificed her children for revenge? Or will I be the mother who sacrifices everything for her children?
Lindsey DeLoach Jones
I grew strong. And yet I couldn’t outrun motherhood or age or the life that threatened to swallow me up with its lists and its human alarm clocks and its feeding schedule.
Sarah E. Tillman
Even though you are almost seventeen and not a baby, I have to get up and go over to you to touch you and make sure you have not disappeared into the sky.
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