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Modern Love in miniature, featuring reader-submitted stories of no more than 100 words.

Brian Rea

Every Sunday, at 2 p.m. sharp, static sizzles from the beat-up, 10-year-old flip phone my grandpa won’t give up. Updates on his life in Oklahoma, my father’s health, my sister’s wedding plans, the old woman down the road whose dog digs up his yard. His lazy vowels loop together like cursive. He never says the words. But he’s stopped calling my girlfriend of five years my “friend.” He asks how I’m doing, sends old family photos by mail so I have a piece of them with me in Massachusetts. “You’ll always have a home here,” he says. “Remember that.” — Samantha Wood

An old color photograph of the author sitting on her grandfather’s lap, outdoors on a swing.
Swinging with my grandpa in Sapulpa, Okla.

Some days ago, over beef stew, my mother recounted a birthday where we didn’t have much. Even at 11, I must have sensed it, she said, because when she asked me what I wanted, I said just Nilagang Baka, my favorite Filipino beef stew. I was well-intentioned but unaware that, at that time, even beef was a luxury. So that birthday, mom made me beef stew — with only enough beef for me. More than 20 years later, I brought her to Wolfgang’s for Christmas, and we indulged in a steak for two. Finally, my sweet, giving mother also had her share. — Pola del Monte

My mother, Chrystia, enjoying our Christmas dinner in Manila.

I was miscarrying my first pregnancy. Grief snaked its roots around my limbs, knitting my body into the fabric of the couch. I felt Sam’s gaze, tender and concerned. “Could I call Emma?” he asked gently. I met his eyes, which were heavier, more tired than usual. I nodded, grateful. Thirty minutes later, my closest friend stood in the doorway like a god. She set down a container of pasta al pomodoro before hugging me fiercely. “It’s dark in here,” she said. “Why don’t we turn on some lights?” — Emily Rowan

My two soul mates, Emma and Sam, last summer in Paris.

In the final days of divorce negotiations, I needed to approach our settlement like a business negotiation. I was ready to mourn and start “swimming through mud” to move on in life. I asked my soon-to-be ex, “What will it take for you to sign the paperwork?” I ended up paying him $75,000 for freedom, walking away only with a big, macho snowblower. Years later, I advertised the snowblower on Facebook Marketplace as a “$75K SNOWBLOWER FOR $450.” It sold — a steal, in my mind, at any price. — Lori Beth Mendelsohn

A photo of took in my freedom: a wintry Lake Michigan.

See more Tiny Love Stories at nytimes.com/modernlove. Submit yours at nytimes.com/tinylovestories.

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