When the flutters inside me turn to more powerful kicks, I guide my husband’s hand to my stomach. Somehow, I feel that if I only tell him about our baby’s movements, they won’t be real to him. A father can never sense an unborn child as viscerally as a mother, but I want to help him connect as much as possible.
Everything about me was wrong in my new school. My hair was black, not blonde. My eyes were mud-colored brown, not blue or green, like shiny marbles.
The baby is awake again. He’s hungry. You feed him, only wincing a little this time. You remind yourself that this is beautiful.
When I was a little girl, I believed in ghosts: I loved the true story collections about doors opening and closing, small children in old fashioned clothes appearing at the foot of someone’s bed, the sudden chill in a room on a lovely summer day, the foggy shape in the corner of a photograph.
Kyla Kupferstein Torres
We stumble out of the neurologist’s office. Juan squeezes my hand as we walk to the A train. We don’t talk until we get down into the subway.
Magin LaSov Gregg
When I married her only son ten years ago, my mother-in-law welcomed me into the family. I had no living mother. She had no daughter. Each of us filled a long shadow in the other’s life.
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