A Father’s Lingering Presence
Ten years after my father’s death, grief had become a routine chore: pack lunches, oversee homework, and acknowledge his persistent absence. On Father’s Day, my 7-year-old mused, “If I had a time machine, I’d tell Steve not to take his own life. He wouldn’t have chosen to die if he knew we’d be here.” “Of course not,” I responded, a truthful lie. We speak openly about his suicide, free from shame, but the full weight of its intricate reality remains too much to share. “You told me he would have wanted us to call him Abuelo,” my son continued. “Abuelo Steve, I wish I could have met you.” — Ali Moss
Love Across Continents
As 11:30 p.m. settled in Minnesota, it was already 11:30 a.m. the next day in Vietnam, where my boyfriend, Nghia, enjoyed a break at the Iris Hotel, a name evoking either the flower of hope or the eye’s colorful part. I messaged him, curious about his cravings for food or drink, then opened a delivery app with my saved credit card. He wished for guava juice and noodles with roasted pork belly. From 8,000 miles away, I arranged Nghia’s lunch. I understood this act wouldn’t replace a hug, yet my heart echoed Ecclesiastes: “a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing.” — John Ngoc Nguyen
Finding My True Self
After being crowned Ms. Canada United World, my partner suggested I “tone it down” and remove social media posts celebrating my achievements. Believing love required compromise, I began to diminish myself: fewer celebrations, less pride in my two businesses, my doctorate, my TEDx talk, my writing, and my teaching; my ambitions softened. Yet, he still left. For too long, I believed I lost him because I was “too much.” Eventually, I grasped the profound truth: We are never meant to be less. Love that demands you shrink is not love at all. — Shara Ally
The Language of My Hands
My hands once caressed many lovers, until they found solace in the gentle clasp of the woman I cherish. These same hands nurtured our newborn children and offered comfort to my mother during her final moments. I am profoundly thankful that my hands serve as instruments to caress and nurture those I hold dear, and I strive to remember that I, too, am worthy of being held and supported. Though they may occasionally falter with age, my hands persistently forge connections to others and to my own evolving self. — Robin Rosenbluth
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