In Aunt Dottie’s Eyes

“What if that baby looks … Irish?” my grandma asked, squinting at my mama’s belly. Her sister Dottie laughed. “That’ll be up to Jesus.” That winter, out I came: full lips, broad nose, pink as a peach. Aunt Dottie tended me, bathed me with her favorite green soap, never minded my eyes’ improbable blue. Between visits, I grew. Sent her letters. Graduated. Married. Until time reversed our roles, and I’d bathe my great-aunt’s beautiful creased body with Irish Spring soap. Through Aunt Dottie’s eyes, I was just as God intended me to be: Black. White. Hers. — Annelise Parham

Quality Endures

Early Sunday morning, someone called his name outside his dorm room. “My mother!” he whispered. “Hide!” As he dressed, I slipped into his closet. Crouched naked in the dark, I heard his mother state, “A pair of ladies’ shoes.” In her measured tone and cadence, the phrase was a question, lecture, sermon and admonition. They left for church. I waited and then skulked out. The night before, he’d sworn he loved me, needed me, and he promised we’d marry. I never heard from him again. However, the shoes — oxblood lizard loafers, made in Italy — are still in my life. — Donna Singmaster

Always Entertaining His Enthusiasm

My father is a nerd. He collects harmonicas, builds terrariums and gleefully constructs tiny wooden boxes. His latest hobby? Coin engraving. He’ll come into the house from his workshop, proudly displaying his small, circular designs. My mother always entertains his enthusiasm. “Oh, that’s cool, Noel,” she says as he describes how he had to tinker around with the engraver settings to get it just right. I’m pretty sure she could not care less about the coins, boxes or harmonicas. But she cares about him. — Samantha Camire

A Question That Broke My Heart

I chewed gum as my children ate pizza, and sipped diet soda as they chose pastries at glass counters. Throughout their childhoods, my eating disorder was unrelenting, controlling my body and mind. My children didn’t notice or understand, I thought. But I was wrong. “Why doesn’t mom like to eat?” they asked my husband some years back. My heart broke when he told me. I worked hard on my recovery shortly thereafter. Whoever said that “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” never shared ice cream with their children. — Jacqueline Goldschneider

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