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My daughter’s birthday falls three days after my late brother’s. Every July, while I hang lanterns and fill gift bags, grief flashes through me. My daughter is 6 and doesn’t know she should have an Uncle Jay. He was nine years my junior, a boy I mothered, adored and eventually couldn’t save from untreated schizophrenia and suicide. I thought telling her about him would only pass down pain. But grief is not the whole story of his life, or our bond. Soon, I will tell my daughter about my brother, confident that I’ll also be able to pass down love. — Ashley Womble
I called my high school friends Anvi and Ashwini in a full, hiccuping meltdown over nothing, a PMS spiral that felt stupidly enormous. Now roommates, both happened to be working from home. Twenty minutes later, they were at my door. No questions, just action: They pulled me out of bed, put shoes on my feet and drove me to get ice cream. We relaxed in the grass in Dolores Park, sharing two pints, watching San Francisco buzz around us. They sat beside me, steady as the sun above, reminding me, without saying a word, that I was never alone. — Kaanthi Pandhigunta