Sandwiches, I have decided, are the best thing to ever grace the planet. People have come to me from all over the world to tell me otherwise, but at the end of things, I will always win.

They (the sandwiches) are such a piece of beautiful soul mate that I have no desire to see other people. Unless, of course, they are the sandwich boy named after his great grandfather, Morris Cupcake.

Morris Cupcake is the only person alive I’ve ever wanted to see more than once. I live

and breathe sandwiches, so it only makes sense that Morris Cupcake the Sandwich Boy is the only agreeable person in the universe. He smells like deli meat and always, always has melted cheese and j ust above his left eye is a winding scratch from a time the knife slipped and jumped through his hands. d grease in his hair. His hands are slivered and rough with scars of making sandwiches for so long. From the very first time I saw him, I knew he was a strange, magnetic force.

But this all just makes me want to scoop up this delightful human and smell the deli meat impressioned in his blood until I’ve memorized it.

Alas, the sandwich boy Morris Cupcake sees me as merely another customer. While he, to my frail female mind, is the only cure to my ailing soul, it can be said quite frankly that I am but a speck of dusty old flesh that gives him money in exchange for sandwiches.

He can’t see the way I look at him. I don’t mean that I don’t want him to, I just mean that this Morris Cupcake is blind to my OBVIOUS affections. I've had these feelings, these brilliant, brilliant, thumping feelings, for him ever since I first met him, and he can't see how I look at him. That may be because he’s engaged to this mucky blonde girl with a rear end the size of Memphis and a father’s paycheck that’s even bigger.

           Her name is Libra Mela and she would look like a warthog if she weren’t basking in the glow of five plastic surgeries. How I loathe her! One day I will shoot her down from the sky and the clouds she thinks she rules.

I shall, I shall, I shall, I shall. And then she will die and I shall not be sorry. Until then, I must continue my plans for Morris Cupcake.

It’s Thursday, and he always comes at five o’clock on Thursdays. He’ll be bringing me a chicken pepper sandwich today. I asked for extra chicken so I could imagine him and his strong sandwich boy arms snapping the heads off of a chicken. I almost hope he’ll still have a bit of chicken blood on him. If he does, then the only acceptable thing to do will be to invite him inside.

Then I shall offer him a cup of boiling tea. It will be so overwhelmingly romantic that he won’t be able to hold his true devotion to me inside his head any longer.

And then…

           He’s knocking at the door and I stand up to run. I fling open the door and there he stands, not a speck of chicken blood to be seen. I say for him to wait just a moment and I know he will because I’m the one giving him money. I run to the backyard and spy a squirrel up on a small tree.

With the lightning fast instincts of a rabid wolf, I pluck the squirrel off the tree. It has no chance. It screams and falls limp. I can tell it is rabid, but that’s no matter. I’m immune to getting rabies, being rabid myself. I carry it, still squirming wildly, back to Morris Cupcake. I open the door and swing the squirrel towards Morris, breaking its head upon his left arm. Blood of squirrel splatters all over his clothes and a bit of his face. He yells and throws his sandwich carrier on the ground, and then he tries to run away. But I stick to my plan!

I smile sweetheartedly and grab the arms of the sandwich boy, yanking him into the doorway. He’s still shocked from the squirrel blood, so he doesn’t complain too much when I throw him into the couch and sit across from him.

        “You’ll have to change your clothes, you know.” I say, swinging my legs gallantly.          “What, no!” He bounces up off the couch and tries to run for the door, but I kick him back with the edge of my boot and smile tightly.

          “You’re my guest. Behave like one, please.”

He once again tries to escape, so I have no choice but to kick him again, slamming the heel of my foot into his chest. Breathless, he sinks into the cushions and his eyes sort of roll back in his head. I hurry to the kitchen and make his cup of boiling tea. When I come back, I find that he’s somehow regained enough strength to make it to the door. I set the tea down and frown. He turns the doorknob, but it’s already locked.

I walk quietly over to his side. “Please come sit down. It won’t be long at all. Just give me a minute, just a slice of your time.”

           Morris Cupcake doesn’t answer. I frown more deeply saddened that he won’t comply so easily as I thought. I grab the front of his squirrel stained shirt and drag him back to the couch.

“Drink the tea, and you’ll be on your way. Don’t you see I’m just trying to repay you for all you’ve done for me? Drink the tea, and you’ll be on your way. I won’t bother you anymore. I promise.”            He’s terrified, but there’s no need to be. I reach across the couch and pat his head. He flinches and I pull my hand away. He won’t drink the tea. This upsets me, because, after all, I made it just for him. Me, the sweet reclusive girl of the looming 19 Rawness Avenue, has taken time from her busy schedule to make Morris Cupcake a cup of tea and he won’t have it?

I am not beautiful, but I am not as hideous as Libra Mela. My hair is scraggly and my arms are like chickens’ and always covered with grit and glim as I never wash. I have a strange appetite. I do not go to school. They say I would frighten the children. Of course, the adults are probably more scared of me than the children would be.

Before Morris Cupcake can say another word, I snatch the tea up from the table and tilt it towards him. He clenches his jaw. I smile. This will be more fun than I had even thought.

            I move to sit by him on the couch and he makes a dive for my hands, trying to fight me off, but I stick the end of the spoon from the tea into his cheekbone and he howls. I let go of the spoon and then turn his face towards mine. His mouth is already conveniently screaming, so I take advantage and dump the entire tea cup’s contents into his throat.

             Three seconds, and his eyes close. He stops struggling to breathe after a while, and as I hold his cold hands in my own glinty ones, he drifts into wherever dead sandwich boys go. I take the spoon from his cheekbone and throw it to the floor. I can still smell the delicious deli meat smell on his clothes, even over all the squirrel blood. I walk to the door and pick up the sandwich carrier. He won’t need it anymore.

You see, I’ve decided that sandwiches are the best thing to ever grace the planet, but even the best things on the planet need to be improved sometimes.

Who best to improve the taste of a sandwich, than Morris Cupcake the Sandwich Boy?


A good friend and colleague who knew I had several weeks of summer hiatus from teaching design at Claremont College, asked me if would volunteer to teach a summer school art class for high school freshmen. I agreed and this announcement was included in the Spring/Summer issue of the City Civic Arts Newsletter:

’Scapes: Land and Sea. Learn to draw the world around us. For young artists interested in taking their drawing to a higher level. Explore a variety of subjects, developing an understanding of form, composition, line, light/shadow, perspective, and color. Tuition: $20 + $15 supply fee due at first class. (Class size Limited to the first twelve.) Starts July 5 th: ─ 11:00 to 12:30 – City Library #205 Instructor: Ted Wilson By the middle of June, twelve students had signed up for the class. *   *   *   * I parked my jeep and walked upstairs lugging a dozen totes for the student’s art supplies. I’d made sure that sketch paper, colored pencils, and other drawing materials were already in the locked classroom. Seven boys and five girls were waiting when I walked up. The boys wore cargo shorts and tees. Four of the girls wore cut-off jeans and stylish, scoop-necked tops and sandals - not too different from what kids wore in hot summers when I was their age, about 20 years ago. The fifth girl with noticeably long red hair stood apart from the group. She wore a plain, calf-length skirt brown leather shoes with laces, and a sleeveless white blouse that bared her thin, freckled arms. I said, “Hi. Are you here for Mr. Wilson’s drawing class?” They answered yes, practically in unison, and I said, “Wait here. I’ll see if I can find him.” I looked around and then said, “Oh. Here I am.” They responded with the groans my silly greeting deserved, while I unlocked the door, and let everyone in. There were twenty-five desks for just twelve students so I told them to take whichever one they wanted, first-come-first-served. They grouped in the center of the classroom, except for the russet-haired girl in the skirt and blouse who took a desk in the back row. While they got situated, I put the totes on my desk, unpacked the roll call sheet, and wrote my name on the whiteboard behind my desk. An email informed me that all the fees had been sent in, so I didn’t have to collect any money. I learned that an anonymous donor who called himself, or herself, Patron of the Arts had paid for Emma Garibaldi. The note went on to say she was “Socially Challenged” staying at Child Protective Services and awaiting assignment to a foster family. “Transportation is a problem, so there may be tardiness or missed classes.” The other students chatted and laughed with their friends as though it had been years, rather than just a couple of weeks since they’d seen each other. I looked over what would be my workspace for two days a week for the next six weeks. There were large second-story windows with plenty of north light and a view of the city park that surrounds the library. I spotted several kinds of trees that would serve as models for scenery backdrop or even subjects themselves. An expanse of sky was visible and, with any luck, we’d have a variety of summer clouds to talk about and replicate. At slightly past eleven O’clock, I got attention by tapping the desktop and announcing that it was time for roll call. I told the class my name was Ted Wilson, and that I taught classes at Claremont College of Art and Design. I mentioned that only twelve years earlier I had graduated from the high school they would soon be attending. Blank stares told me the class did not see this as the fascinating connection I’d hoped for. So with that nice try out of the way, I said. “OK, now for roll call. Please say “Here” when I call your name. I paused, and then said, “Would anyone like me to go over that one more time?”

I smiled and they laughed. The kid who laughed the loudest had a visored cap on his shaggy head and Rawlings baseball mitt on his left hand. I looked toward him; “So, what’s your name?” He said, “I’m Eddie Gallagher, and nice goin’ on makin’ it through high school. I sure hope I do.” I chuckled at the way he said it, and the others all roared. I guessed they had been laughing at Eddie’s clowning around for most of their lives. His good humor told me I had made a connection and broken some barriers. The rest of them all answered here when they heard their name, and then we passed out the supplies and the tote bags. I saw Emma Garibaldi’s shoulders relax when she realized that there was one for her. So began that first day. All my students except Emma were from families that likely took education seriously – even a summer school class that had no academic credits and no real relevance to career planning. Young students are told that an art class may be useful in developing an appreciation for the finer things. Additionally, that drawing represents an intellectual challenge and an outlet for creative energy; just what every kid needs, or so they say. There are no bad reasons for learning, but I always hope for some student who possesses not just a desire for status or talent for illustration, but that mysterious capability to convey feeling, insight, and passion through art.

Years ago, on a high school field trip to the DeYoung Museum, I got emotional and weepy-eyed in front of a painting titled Starry Night . Our teacher, Mrs. Havens, seeing my embarrassment said, “It’s OK, Ted. It’s not unusual to see tears in the presence of Van Gogh.” This only ensured that I had the tag Teary Ted hanging on me the rest of the semester, and beyond. All the same, I can still choke up seeing some beautiful leap of imagination or some exquisite surprise. It doesn’t happen often, but it did that summer session - and from a wonderfully unexpected source. I still don’t know how Emma got to our classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but she was always waiting when I arrived, no matter how early. I asked Gayle Snow, one of the popular girls. She said she had not seen Emma arrive either, but she’d heard that her dad was in jail, and nobody knew where her mom was. She said, “I try to be friendly, but she acts like she’s in another world. She’s like autistic or something.” Gayle’s friend, Julia French said, “She’s weird and lives at Juvie, that’s all anyone knows”. I said, “All right, that’s enough. Let’s try to make this part of Emma’s life the good part, OK?” There was no answer in words but as the girls walked away, they nodded, telling me they understood and empathized - good kids, at heart. Emma kept her seat in the back row as though being ignored was something to hope for. When I asked to see her work, she leaned forward covering it with her forearms and elbows with her long, rusty-red hair falling across her shoulders. Treating her in any special way only seemed to emphasize her painful dissimilarity, so I limited my communication with her to a good morning smile. The summer went by quickly, and everyone got much better with pencils, chalk, and sketchpad. We had a lot of fun in the process, but the last day came at the right time. With just a couple of weeks of summer vacation left, my students were concentrating on the upcoming challenges of high school and the intrigues of adolescence; not so much on improving their ability to draw landscapes. The final exam was no exam at all. I wanted the last day to be fun. The kids filed in and watched me write the assignment on the whiteboard:

Draw a picture titled: “ A Place I Love”. Following a suitable period of wisecracks and joking around, the students got serious and began thinking and drawing in earnest. We had the room until two O’clock, so I told them to take all the time they wanted. I walked around, watching the drawings develop. The ones doing seashores employed a method for realistic-looking back-lighted breakers and waves I’d taught early on. The rolling, grassy hills all had some version of the bending dirt road and lonely tree I‘d used for demonstration. The students had learned well, but they were drawing places they loved to draw, rather than places they loved. I had hoped to see what came from the heart, as well as from the head and the hand. Emma was absorbed in her work, using every item in her art supplies tote. What I knew of her life seemed so hard, with no rewards, no joys, and no family, or friends to counterbalance the hurts. I was dying to see what had come to mind that she was working on so diligently. Time was up and I walked around the room commenting. The drawing quality ranged from not bad to good, to damn good ─ all except for Emma’s ─ hers was sublime. She stood up, hesitated for just a moment, and then walked to the front of the class holding her 14X16 sketch paper masterpiece. With everyone quiet and watching, she held it out like a gift. It was neither a landscape nor a seascape. It was the interior of a room employing perfect lines and vanishing points. North light streamed in from large windows creating soft shadows and depth. Trees and clouds were visible through the windows, and students at desks, hunched over their work. At the front of the room, she had drawn a whiteboard showing the assignment I’d written almost two hours earlier; just a scrawl with “love” the only legible word. I’d planned to say something about the importance of art and artists in helping us understand our connections to our fellow humans, and to the world we share, but my teary eyes told my students all they needed to know. The End


Love is a gamble. There are times it turns out well, living a life of fulfillment and pleasure, and there are times you lose every penny you own and the house in the divorce. But when it came to the Valdez women and love, they had exceptionally terrible luck when rolling the dice.

That didn’t stop Mel Valdez from developing the biggest crush on Jack Brunson that had ever existed in the history of unrequited high school love. When she spotted him across the hall in freshman year: his olive skin, big brown eyes, beautiful dark hair, and those luscious lips that were the same color as—

Mel stopped herself. She was a Valdez, born to be cursed by love like all the other women in her family. Tiá Monica, at her late husband’s funeral, was surprised by unknown gambling debts, and his girlfriend. Turns out he faked his death in the end.

Her abuelo left her abuela when he discovered she was pregnant with triplets. Her cousin Rosie’s husband turned out to be a crypto miner that sold all of their possessions only to lose them in a bad investment. Mel’s own father was currently doing time for being a serial arsonist who took pleasure in burning down abandoned malls. Jack Brunson and the way his soccer shorts made Mel’s heart flutter were buried far beneath the earth’s surface. Freshman year went without incident and Mel forced herself to forget everything about him and enjoy the few friends she had. Sisters before misters. Which worked until sophomore year, when Jack’s family moved and now he used the same train station as Mel to make it to school and her feelings came back with a vengeance.

In order to survive Mel resurrected the “don’t talk to me” uniform she invented in middle school: AirPods in, eyes glued to the phone, and stand so far away from any other living thing that you melt into the background. Mel dusted off the old grunge hits for special effect and stood so far away from Jack on the platform she almost fell off the cement and onto the grass.

That worked for a while, until it didn’t. Jack’s radiant smile and the way he always had so much energy no matter the heat in May or if the train shed was covered in snow by December, made it impossible to ignore him forever.

Mel could at least say “good morning”. He was much too magnetic and far too gorgeous for her to not at least try. They would be seniors next year, practically adults, and Mel felt trapped by the idea that she was still the shy little immigrant girl who learned English in third grade. She couldn’t even talk to a boy and it put her so down in the dumps even her family began to notice.

“What’s wrong mija?” Madre asked, not looking up from her papers across the dining room table. She had that annoying ability to sense that something was off even without looking.

“Its nothing.” Mel pretend to read her economics textbook again.

She heard Madre shuffle her papers and put them to the side. “Look at me Melody, I know what that look means.”

Against every fiber of her being, Mel looked up, lovesickness practically pouring from her eyes. She hated her mother’s intuition. “Ma, how do you talk to a boy?” She asked. Mel knew just how this would go. Her mother sighed.

“You don’t mija, get a cat instead, pretty much the same thing. They’re cute at first, smell, and eat all the time. But a pet won’t leave you to raise a daughter alone.”

Mel frowned, she had heard that line a million times before. “Tiá Calista has ten cats and she’s still miserable. Her house reeks.” Mel said.

“Don’t do it Melody. The Valdez women have learned—the hard way—that love is far more trouble than its worth. Your house still smells when you get married although Calista could get an air freshener or two.”

“But—”

“Is it that boy at the train stop?” Madre asked.

“No. Yes, but he’s not like other—”

“Oh mija, cute boys are worse than ugly ones. Your tió Pablo was alright looking and faked his own death. Your father was the most beautiful man on the island and his hobby was burning old malls.” Mel’s mother snarled, the anger flooding back to her.

“Madré.” Mel complained. If she didn’t stop this now her mother would slip into Spanish and say things that would turn Mel’s ears red.

Her mother shook her head “Lo siento, your father is just a colossal—anyways. No boys, never boys. Love and the Valdez women do not mix.”

Melody felt even worse and as disappointed as she may have been, she could not argue with her mother. Her father was a decently handsome man and an arsonist. If her and someone as gorgeous as Jack ever got together he would come out as a terrorist or the leader of some massive cartel.

Mel became resolute in ignoring Jack’s kind morning nods or the way he sang to himself and she especially had to look away when he came to school in his soccer uniform. Those short shorts and tight jersey made her swoon so hard she was tempted to jump off the platform to hide her cherry colored cheeks.

They would never work out anyways. Jack was popular, star defender of the soccer team, and able to answer every question in class with ease. Mel was an introverted girl who learned to speak English well after her peers did, and just thinking about speaking up in class transported her back to the days of being embarrassed by classmates that made fun of her accent, smelly foreign food, and Dora light up shoes.

Mel learned how to ditch the accent, brought more American food for lunch, and learned to dress well, but her timid nature remained. She was more comfortable in the shadows of obscurity rather than the limelight that would come with being the girlfriend of Jack Brunson, leader of an infamous and dangerous drug cartel. It was stupid to think she could talk to him and he would give her more than a cursory good morning nod.

So the days came and went. Mel would arrive every morning, silent as ever despite being the only two lifeforms at the platform and donning her bulletproof “don’t talk to me” uniform.

Senior year arrived, the college applications were filled out, and Melody’s mother was proud that her daughter chose to follow in her footsteps and study pre-law a few hours away in the city. Jack was awarded a soccer scholarship out of state and Mel wasn’t surprised. She didn’t find out from Jack of course, she just couldn’t help herself from following all the gossip that pertained to him and his muscular calves.

May approached and soon this game of avoiding her crush at the train station would come to an end. Mel could drown herself in classwork, get herself a pleasant non—smelly cat, and find fulfilment in a career as a lawyer. She had avoided the curse of love, dancing around it for years only to come out victorious in the end. Melody would be the one Valdez woman never burned by such evil.

That was until she broke her ankle, was tossed into a cast, and expected to carry a massive foam board onto the train while using crutches.

“Are you sure mija? I can go in late and drive you all the way. I’m always early, they won’t care this one time.” Madre asked as she dropped Melody off at the platform.

Mel rolled her eyes. Her mother was always late. “No, its fine. Lucy always gets on at the stop after mine. She’ll help.”

“Alright. Just checking.“

It was unbelievably hot and walking with crutches and holding a massive foam board and trying to avoid the boy she was in love with was stupid. She should have taken her mother up on her offer, but Mel would live, although navigating the stairs was an olympic feat. Jack arrived later than usual, gave her his cursory nod and a quizzical look at her cast and project, but went back to his humming.

The train sounded down the hill, motoring along with its familiar squeak and squeals and just as Mel gathered her things the world fell apart. Her crutches slipped from beneath her, her project slid across the platform, and her AirPods popped out as she tumbled.

The cement platform bit into her legs, her already broken ankle throbbed with pain, and Mel’s hands were raw from her fall.

“Are you okay?” Jack gathered her board and was at her side, holding her things.

It would be a dream to be helped by the most handsome boy on the planet, but Mel was filled with dread. She looked like a toddling mess in front of Jack and he was looking directly into her eyes. And oh, what gorgeous eyes they were. “Mhmm.” Mel mumbled.

Idiot! She couldn’t even use an actual word in the English dictionary. Stupid.

“I can carry your stuff for you. Looks like you’ve got a lot going on.” Jack smiled and then did a small chuckle.

His laugh sweetened the air, it brightened the sun, the clouds even seemed to melt away. Mel’s heart was ready to eject itself from her chest. The Valdez women were to avoid love and cute boys, like oil did water or models did a bad hair day.

“Here, let me help you.” Jack’s hands were on hers, helping her up. They were soft and yet so strong.

She made another unintelligent sound and Jack laughed.

Mel was an idiot. She got an A in advanced placement language arts and literature. She loved to write and read so why was English deserting her now? Heck, Spanish would be better than sounding like Sméagol.

“Don’t want to be late.” Jack said. He handed her the crutches, shouldered her bag and project and even kicked a stray flyer out of her way. The train was slowing down.

“Its Melody right?” Jack asked.

“Yes. You’re Jack.” Mel was glad she rediscovered her voice, but she could have said something cooler than stating the obvious.

“Yeah that’s me. I remember that time in debate where you totally owned Larissa. It was pretty epic.” He laughed again, as the doors opened.

“You’ve been on the soccer team and took them to state three years in a row.” Mel said, forcing her face to not flush.

Jack rubbed the back of his head, teen heartthrob style and chuckled. “I didn’t really have anything to do with that. Conner is the real M.V.P.”

Smart, athletic, and humble. He must have been the leader of the illuminati or plotting to bomb the UN. Mel was convinced. She sat down on the train and about fainted realizing that Jack chose to sit next to her. Her chest was about ready to tear itself apart.

The conversation lasted all the way to school and couldn’t have gone any better, but Mel wondered when it would end. Jack would move on with his life and one day tell the story to his children about how he helped this klutz wearing crutches in high school.

But the conversation didn’t stop: not after graduation, not after the first year of college, not even after years of dating when he told her he had something big to tell her. Turns out he wasn’t the leader of Al Qaeda or part of a shadow government. Jack just had a ring and an important question to ask her.

Sometimes even for those with the worst luck, worst tíos, and worst padres, the dice could roll just right.


“Should we get started?” the principal suggests in a cheery, singsong voice, tapping on the microphone. “People? Please take your seats. Excuse me, people?” Her smile is brittle as she grips the microphone a little too hard. She stands alone on the Cafetorium stage, a space that doubles as both a lunchroom and a theater—and permanently smells of soured milk. The throng of veteran teachers summarily ignores her, continuing to talk more loudly to one another, mainly about expected retirement dates. They help themselves to off brand cookies and lukewarm coffee, drinking copious amounts in cheap environmentally-unfriendly styrofoam cups. Next to the coffee table , a colorful sign—"Recycling Begins With Me!"— is posted over a trashcan full of used plastic bottles and crushed Red Bull cans. No amount of caffeine or sugar prepares anyone for the 7:30 a.m. first faculty meeting of the school year.

The new teachers sit in the front row on cold plastic chairs, dutifully prepared to take notes. Most have not brought a sweater or jacket and shiver in the subarctic chill of the school’s overactive air conditioning. They’ve already introduced themselves to each other, separate and apart from their colleagues. They wonder if they’ve chosen the wrong profession and are secretly horrified at the bovine creatures mooing behind them. How am I stuck with 9th grade remedial when these cows all have upper level honors classes? “People? The sooner we start, the sooner you can work in your rooms,” the principal begs. The new teachers will unload a dozen boxes of supplies and room decorations from their two-door hatchbacks, invariably parked in the wrong car lot. The veteran teachers will staple faded, crumpled posters—“The Best Way To Predict Your Future Is To Create It!”—that they’ve stored in the back of their classroom closets for years.

Fifteen minutes after the alleged start time, the principal’s secretary enters the Cafetorium with an armful of handouts, still warm from the photocopier. As expected, the various papers are unstapled because no one has bothered to replace the photocopier’s staple cartridge, empty since the preceding June.

“Girl, hand me the duty roster. I am not supervising Hallway B after school. I’ll talk to my union rep about that.” “Sixth period planning? That’s the worst. Why do I even have a planning period, then? I need to get this changed.” “No one said they were moving my classroom. I’ve been there for four years! I’m not even in the same building. I have a bad back — maintenance is going to have to move all those boxes.” “I never agreed to a third prep. I don’t even teach social studies.” The new teachers look over their shoulders, hearing the hue and cry of their colleagues, now whispering to each other—in jest—that they’ve definitely chosen the wrong profession. Ha ha. “People, there have been some changes this year with the new state standards. Please find page eight in the packets—if there were packets—well, just look at the top of the page that reads BEST Standards,” the principal says, clicking through a PowerPoint slideshow that has far too many words in an unreadable microfont. “I don’t have page eight. I have three page nines . . .” “What happened to the FIRST Standards or the COMMON CORE Standards or the SUNSHINE Standards—” “Whenever a new governor gets into office, they suddenly know how to fix education.” “Or his wife does.” “Does this mean the FIRST Standards tests in March are out?” “No, the state will still give the FIRST Standards tests, but they will use the BEST standards to score them holistically.” “They’ll score them to show that the new governor’s standards are ‘highly effective’ in ‘educating the whole child’ and ‘preparing them for the 21st century workplace’—” “I’m sure there will be a graph showing the ‘learning gains’ of ‘critical thinking skills’—” The entire row behind the new teachers bursts out into cynical laughter. “People? Please, people, there is a lot to go over. Please turn to the four-page list of drills this year. Understand what is required of you for fire, tornado, hurricane, chemical spill, and active shooter drills. We have added three week-long units on mental health awareness and social-emotional health issues. We will also have four bullying assemblies, one per quarter.” “When do we get to teach—” “At least there are no more nuclear bomb drills—” “I don’t have a list of the drills—” “Couldn’t this meeting have been an email?” “Before we leave, I want to share something with you,” the principal wistfully sighs. “This is something very meaningful to me, and I hope you appreciate the spirit in which I share it with you.” “ Please, not the starfish story.” “You know it is.” The principal continued. “One day a man was walking along the beach when he noticed a boy picking something up and gently throwing it into the ocean. Approaching the boy, he asked, ‘What are you doing?’” “I literally can tell this story backwards.” “The ocean threw the starfish up on the beach in the first place. What makes the boy think the ocean isn’t going to do it again?” “The youth replied, ‘If I don’t throw them back, they’ll die.’” The principal gives a dramatic pause. A few of the older teachers simply walk out.

“The man said, ‘Don’t you realize there are miles and miles of beach and hundreds of starfish? You can’t make a difference!’ After listening politely, the boy bent down, picked up another starfish, and threw it back into the surf.” The principal takes a deep breath, rises to her full height of 5 feet, 6 inches, and squares her shoulders. “Then, smiling at the man, the boy said . . . ‘I made a difference for that one.’” The new teachers wipe teary eyes, jotting down the words “Make A Difference” and drawing a starfish next to the principal’s directive. I knew this was the right field for me. I am here to transmit culture, to help the next generation achieve their dreams, to make a difference, and to stay out of the faculty lounge.

The remaining veteran teachers continue to scroll through their phones.

“Have a great year!” the principal calls out, as the new teachers remain seated, unsure of what to do next or who to follow.

⟶⟷⟵ Author’s Note: The following is taken verbatim from the State of Florida’s BEST English Language Arts Standards for the 2021-2022 school year. (BEST is an acronym for “Benchmarks for Excellent Student Thinking,” which really should be BFEST, but that wouldn’t be as catchy.) The implementation of these standards will encourage schools, districts, and educators to adopt and build a rich, deep, and meaningful curriculum that “uplifts the soul.”

 The goal of these standards is to restore teachers to their true calling: educating the hearts, souls, and minds of their students, bringing them “into the glorious light of truth.”

(Oof. Do I need a theology endorsement now?) Good luck with the starfish this year, fellow teachers!


Hi! I'm Janice and well, today I'm going to a party. Sounds fun right? Not for me though. I haven't really attended one in such a long time. Why? It all starts way back in highschool on a Friday night. I was getting ready to attend a party, hosted by the most popular girl in school, Amelia. I was thrilled when I had recieved my invitation. I was kind of a nerd but I had some good friends. When I arrived, I was feeling exicted. I had never been invited to a party before. The party was at Amelia's house. It was so crowded I could barely walk. There was a lot of food and many drinks (no alcohol). There was also music blasting through the speakers and people were dancing. I joined them and then I suddenly ran into Amelia. " Hey! Glad you could make it!" she said smiling to me. She had blond hair, beautiful blue eyes, and was definitely really pretty. " Yea! Me too! I'm sure it will be a blast!" I reply with the same smile. I was about to walk off before I felt this really cold liquid splash down on my head and drip down to my clothes. I freeze and slowly turn behind me to find Amelia smirking with her emtpy cup that she dropped down with a clunk. " W-wha-? W-why?" I sputter at her dripping and shaking. By now, everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at me. " Aw...Are you gonna cry? Do you actually think we would want you here, you nerd? Well, we don't so why don't you go home and cry to your mommy," Amelia said in a baby voice. Everyone laughed at me. I actually did start crying. I could feel tears starting to prick my eyes so I ran out of there as fast as I could. I went home and told myself over and over again that I would never attend a party again. Get why I'm nervous about attending a party again? It's been 10 years since the "accident" so I should move on. But the thing is, the party I'm attending, is my high school reunion party. I know, I'm crazy for wanting to attend but surely Amelia has changed? I mean, I own a big business right now and my looks have become better. Ok. I've decided. I am going to go to the party and hopefully not regret it. I change into a cute dress, put make up on, curl my hair a bit, and then walk out my front door. I get into my limo and I have someone drive me to my location. This time, it was at my old high school. As I stepped out of my limo, the people outside turned to stare at me wondering how the high school nerd became this rich, pretty, woman. I walked in the high school not minding them and I saw a lot of people I regonized but I didn't see Amelia nor my friends. Well, I knew I wouldn't see my friends since they told me so but I was kind of hoping they would be there. I kept looking around until I bumped into someone. I touch my head a little from the pain and we both say, " I'm sorry!" I look up to see Amelia (or at least I think) staring back at me. She looked the same as highschool but older. " Amelia?" I question. " Janice?" she questions. " W-wow! It's been a long time. How are you?" I say to her shocked face. " I'm good. How are you?" she replies. She seems nicer or maybe she was just tricking me again. " I'm doing good. I actually own the JJ company," I say and with a reply I see a shocked face. " That big company? It's yours? I didn't realize it," she said to me. " Ya," I say sorta smiling at her. " Well, I'm sorry. I hope you can forgive me again. I really wanna be friends with you," she says sadly. So that's how she wants to play. She thinks I can forgive her for humiliating me. And now she wants to be friends? Is it because of my money? Huh? " I'm sorry Amelia," I say in my nicest tone. " But I don't think we can be friends. You say sorry after you find out I have money. I don't like to be used for things," I say and then I walk out of her sight. After that nonsense, I actually had a great time. I was drinking soda and partying. The best thing is that my besties made it! I had convinced them to come along so that I could chat with them. We danced, laughed, and caught up with old friends that we hadn't talked to for a while. It was so much fun. I missed having a party like this. We stayed until 10:00 p.m but then everyone started to leave. I was getting tired so I decided to head home. After all, tomorrow was a big day for me. I was going to be giving a big speech to a crowd and I had to get ready. I was going to revise my speech again but I was tired from all that laughter and fun so I immidently fell asleep. The next morning I woke up at 6:00 ready for the speech. I head there arriving early and I perform my speech with ease. I never really had stage fright so I did it amazingly. Maybe because of last night. I had to admit it was the most fun I had ever had. I smiled at everyone as I talked loud and clear. I didn't need a script because I was excellent at memorizing. Once I was done, everyone gave me a standing ovation as they clapped loudly. I felt proud as I walked off the stage smiling. I drove home thinking at my friends and when the next party I could be attending. I hope I wasn't about to get addicted.


Things can get Progressively better Late afternoon sunlight oozed through the partially open blinds and grimy windows of the office, flung itself like spider webs through the stale, fuggy air and splattered in pee-colored puddles on a desk littered with empty Starbucks cups and Brueggers Bagels wrappers. Hunched over the desk was a man with a cracked cellphone hanging from a limp hand and mouthing the words to the recorded message yet again: " Bonjour ! You've reached the cell phone of Anoinette Dupuis. I'm sorry I'm not here to take your call personally. At the tone, please leave your name, number and a brief message and I will return your call.

Au revior! " "Like hell you will," he muttered under his breath as he waited for the beep. A tobacco-flavored eternity later he heard it, then spoke with forced cheerfulness, "Hey Antoinette! Joe Sticker, insurance agent, here in Surrey Heights. Give me a call! Once again, I hope you're doing well. I look forward to connecting with you here soon regarding your car insurance, and getting that changed over for you. I have some lower payments we talked about here a while back, and I wanted to help you do that before your payment comes due this month if possible, so you can start saving some money. Give me a call when you get a chance: 123-666-1313 - thank you very much!" Joe tossed the phone onto the desk and looked up at the dingy ceiling. He'd lost count of how many times he called that number over the last months, but her name and auto insurance inquiry kept popping up in his lead feed, so he stubbornly kept calling. He'd actually talked to her briefly several months ago and it sounded like she really wanted a quote. Joe rubbed a big hand over his tired eyes; he had to get some sales soon or his business would fold. He glanced at the moon-faced clock on the unhappy wall opposite his desk and sighed; at 4:30 on a Friday afternoon nobody would be answering any more calls. The lucky ones would be going to the bars or out to dinner with someone exciting and beautiful. He smiled grimly; OK, maybe not someone exciting and beautiful, but with someone... Joe unfolded his lanky frame as the chair creaked warningly, grabbed his only-slightly-frayed suit jacket and shambled out the door. It closed with a soft finality behind him. Outside, Joe blinked in the dusty sunlight and headed languidly to his used Subaru. His brother called it "The Green Grunt", but it was paid for and it got him where he wanted to go. If he made as much as his brother did, he'd be driving a Porsche, too. But Joe had always been just average in a family of over-achievers; he'd been middle of his graduating class, middle in his athletic attempts, and not even middle in his default career. What friends he had were just as bland and ordinary as he was, and weren’t enough of a clientele to keep his business afloat; just middle-of-the-roaders living a middling life in middle America… Joe snorted; "Middle" should have been his middle name, but he didn't even have one. Joe slid behind the wheel, settled his back into the lumps of the seat, then noticed the bright post-it on the dashboard declaring "CATFOOD!!!" in pink marker. He nodded to himself and started off for Lion Foods; this low-tech system worked much better for him than his temperamental phone which would only remind him of things if it felt like it. Joe patted the post-it fondly; it was comforting to know that there would be someone waiting for him when he got home, even if only waiting to be fed. Too bad Sam and Frodo didn’t need insurance… While cruising along on automatic pilot, Joe's thoughts stumbled back to that fruitless phone call; he used to enjoy her warm voice and sensual accent, but by now all it did was annoy him. He'd been trying to talk to her for so long and she just ignored him. The thought made him grind his teeth in furious frustration and he could feel a headache coming on behind his left eye. On a sudden whim, Joe gunned the Subaru, zoomed through a yellow light, and pulled screeching into the parking lot of Scorecard, the only watering hole he knew. He leaped from the car and slammed the door so hard, its bottom edge, scalloped with rust, flaked off in small, cinnamon flecks. He'd had a long day - hell, he'd had a long month. He deserved a little time with the guys and a drink or two. Cat food could wait. After fumbling in his pocket for his mask (standard issue, blue surgical and slightly dingy from multiple uses), Joe hooked it over his ears, then strode into the sports bar, yanked out a chair and perched on it, pretending he did this all the time. A tall, heavyset man looked up from tap, then grinned over his own mask. "Hey, Joe! Long time, no see! Where've you been?" Joe opened his mouth to answer, but at that moment the man interjected, "Your brother was just here; did you see him in the parking lot? That's one sweet set of wheels he's driving!" Joe's mouth snapped shut and he muttered, "Just gimme the usual, please, Terry." Terry cocked his shaggy head to one side, regarding Joe curiously. "And what would that be?", he asked simply. Joe scowled at him a moment, then sighed. "What kind of a bartender are you that you don't remember your customers' regular orders?" Terry guffawed, then shot back, "A damn good one, but you're hardly ever here. But I think I've got something you'll like." Moments later, a glass of foamy, brown ale plunked down on the bar in front of him along with a basket of overly salted chips. Joe nodded to Terry's retreating back, then shoved his mask back into a pocket. Morosely he crunched on a handful of chips, washing them down with swigs of the Guinness while contemplating life, phone calls and older brothers. Joe was just licking the last of the salt from his fingers when behind him he heard a familiar voice. " Bonjour,  Michelle! I just got to Scorecard..." Carefully Joe looked over his left shoulder and froze. There, curled like a cat at the table just behind him, was a tumble of brown curls spilling over smooth shoulders, splashes of yellow and green on a summer dress, and a pair of shapely legs ending in basket-woven sandals. A flash of red like a cardinal's wing covered her face: Antoinette Dupuis. She was holding a cell phone to her ear and speaking carefully through the mask. "How long should I wait for you?... What? Oh..." Joe could hear the disappointment in her voice, that lovely, silken voice like warm honey on fresh baguette. "Of course I understand. No worries! These things happen. Kiss the children for me!" She set the phone down and stared unseeingly out the window. Surreptitiously Joe signaled Terry, who hurried over. "Terry," Joe leaned in close, "what's the best French wine you've got?" Terry's eyes flicked briefly in Antoinette's direction, then he whispered, "She liked a merlot." Joe jerked a thumb in her direction, "Send her a glass of your best from me." While Terry was pouring and presenting, Joe was wracking his brain for his wobbly French. He'd had a couple of years in high school, but that was centuries ago. Then he remembered his temperamental cell phone and pulled it out of his pocket. Its cracked screen flickered briefly, then faded into darkness; he'd forgotten to charge it again. For this, Joe was on his own. Marshaling his vocabulary like toy soldiers, Joe took a deep breath, hooked his mask back over his ears, then stood up and stepped to her table. It was the most frightening moment of his life. " Escusez moi, mademoiselle, " he said gallantly while bowing slightly. Antoinette looked up, and Joe felt his breath catch at the wide, brown eyes fringed with thick lashes that looked questioningly at him like a doe. He cleared his throat unnecessarily, then announced " Je m'appelle  Joe Sticker." Antoinette's eyes widened in recognition, making her look even more like a deer. A flush brighter than her mask swept over her face and rushed across her forehead. She glanced away, then stammered, "Joe? Joe Sticker?!? I had no idea! Please, please sit down!" and she gestured to the empty chair across the table. Joe slid into it, feeling better about life and himself than he had in a long time. The conversation began with profuse apologies from Antoinette and gracious acceptance from Joe, but then gathered energy and speed like a river filled with meltwater and surging downstream. The sun sank into an orange heat haze, patrons came and went, Joe ordered them dinner with more merlot, and still they talked. When Antoinette slipped the mask from her face in one smooth motion, Joe found it the most sensual and erotic gesture he'd ever seen. He was mesmerized by her voice and her graceful movements, but even more entranced by her warmth, intelligence and humor. Terry startled them with his last call for the evening, and Antoinette looked apologetically at Joe. "I had no idea it had gotten so late. This has been a lovely evening.

Merci beaucoup !" She flashed him that achingly beautiful smile that he was beginning to hope he would see every day for the rest of his life. She made a move to get up, but Joe impulsively took her hands in his, making her look deep in his eyes. " Ma chérie ," he said softly, massaging her slender fingers, "may I ask you something?" Her eyes filled with tenderness and she smiled again. " Bien sûr , dear Joe! You can ask me anything you like." Feeling very bold, he reached out to gently brush a wisp of curl from her cheek, then whispered, "Have you ever thought of bundling home and auto?".


It happens in the middle of the night, in a city that never sleeps. Vehicles stopped moving on the newly paved road. Wild and tame animals alike stopped running the streets, yards, and sidewalks. The lights of several buildings went out. Streetlights fell silent. Even the river goes still, its fish burrowing into the muddy bottom and finding rest. A disturbing hush fell across Silver City, a city that now sleeps. A thick fog descends upon Silver City's land, clinging to skyscraper and two-story homes. Its source is unseen by the occupants. The group stands on the edge of the town, adjusting their gear and checking their equipment. Attached to their person is carriers for their chosen tools for conjuring magic. Each one of them has a unique instrument. The leader of the group, a short, stocky young woman with alabaster skin and red hair uses a flat-bottomed orb. She chose to follow the path of the mage, walking the ways of the oracles. Behind her, standing off to the left is a tall, muscular man with dark skin and blue eyes wields a staff. He follows the path of the warrior and walks the ways of the wielders. Finally, there is the elf. He is as short as the leader, but with sun kissed skin. He wields a deck of one hundred and four cards; fifty-two of them cast attack and defense spells. The other fifty-two tells fortunes. Like the leader, he follows the path of the mage, but walks the ways of both the oracle and the combatant. The elves pointy twitches, the tattoos on the forearm of the strongman swirl ominously, and the sphere of the leader glows in its pouch. "Magic," they say in unison. "Evil magic," the strongman says, "I've been with you two long enough to know it as good as I know the back of my hand." "As you should," the elves replies. "My sister is here, in Silver City," their leader proclaims. She clenches her fist and looks at the fog slowly forming around them. "We must find her." "I agree." She looks to the elf as he steps forward. He points out, "whatever caused this is bound to be roaming the city's shadows." "Then we'll just have shine a light." The leader takes her orb from its pouch attached to her belt. She beings to mumble an ancient poem. In our brightest days, out of our darkest souls. Bring us light to guide us. Bring us relief to ground us. By this I ask the gods to aid us. The orb glows bright and flings a field of yellow light around the group and expands until it reaches the edge of the fog. The elf moves his fingers through the air and says a similar spell, though in his people's language. When he's done, the field of light grows wider, fighting the fog. "We need to hurry," he says, "this fog will sap our power the instant it touches us." "Should we split up then?" The strong man asks. The leader nods, "I'll teleport to my sister’s home. It is but a few blocks from the city's center, so we will keep that as our meeting place. Both of you find the source of this unnatural phenomenon. Spread out as far as the city will take you." With their orders given, the elf and the strongman walk forward into the fog. The leader takes in a deep breath, steadying the shaking in her limbs. She clutches her orb and brings it to her heart. She closes her eyes and prepares for the sensation that soon engulfs her entire being. It’s a kind of trembling feeling that comes from being moved across time and space. A lot of mages can’t handle this kind of transportation but those who learn to be one with the slight discomfort are able to teleport to places they’ve been before. In her mind, the leader imagines her home as it was two months ago when she came for a holiday visit. She imagines the living room, with its vintage décor and the shaggy rug laid on the floor in front of the couch, to give comfort to her aging parents while they sit. She imagines it and believes in it, and then She vanishes. When the smoke clears and her green eyes recover from their temporary blindness, she’s in the very living room she imagined. She stands in front of the couch and is shocked to see it overturned. The two windows looking out to the lawn are shattered and the front door has been torn clean of its hinges. Several portraits that hung on the wall above the fireplace lay instead on the hardwood floor, smashed. She walks over and picks one of them up, her fingers tracing the broken glass. Her finger bleeds as it catches a sharp edge and a tear falls off her cheek. Before, when they stood outside Silver City limits, she had a premonition of doom. Something told her to come home, if only for a moment. Never had she wanted her premonition to be false. But clearly, it is not. The leader walks through to the kitchen, though nothing there seems to be disturbed. A single drawer containing knives and other sharp instruments has been left open. She walks over closes it, taking an uneasy breath. Something tells her she needs to go upstairs. Something tells her she must go upstairs. Her premonition is tugging strong towards the hallway between the living room and the kitchen. She goes, putting one boot in front of the other, stepping up the stairs and letting her hand run along the metal banister. Upstairs, she discovers her parents’ room has not been disturbed; everything is in its neat, tidy place that her mother would spend an hour everyday organizing. But her sister’s room is a disaster. She can see it in her head, the struggle. Blankets are torn off the bed, the dresser next to the window has been thrown to the floor, and the window is open. Did her sister managed to escape? She doesn’t know. But as the tightness in her chest spreads to her body, her pale lips form a single question. “Where is my sister?”


Rain poured and the skies turned gray. Footsteps sounded like a march in union. Everyone was trying to get home and avoid the enemy above. Soon it became stronger. Trees started to bend and struggled with balance. Powerful winds struck at building signs and isolated cars. The skies above roared as if it was an angry god, the thunder looked like a vein popping out. It was a battlefield, and no one wanted to be a part of it.

In the very corner of the streets lies a man in a brown suit inside his car. “I can’t believe this is happening. I might die,” Henry said. He just got off of work and had to make it back home to his family. He was not expecting a raging weapon from mother nature today. The thought of his children and wife waiting for his return made him nervous. He tried to call but his phone was already dead. I’m not having the best of luck aren’t I. The cold breeze made him stiff like a frozen pole. It was getting worse and worse. Another car flipped to the side from the wind's striking attack. A few seconds later his own car began to wobble. It's as if he was being taunted. Henry shook his head and couldn’t wait any longer. I know it's not any safer but maybe I can find another spot to shelter in. The car door opened wide, and Henry dashed away. He ran through the hurricane storm. The concrete was slippery, and his vision was impaired by the drizzling rain and bashful winds. He stopped at a bakery building, the windows closed and everything dark. Figures. He went under its roof, finally protected. Henry inhaled and exhaled his shivery breath and closed his eyes.

Drip Drip Drop. The rain continued to speak. Drip Drop Drop Drip…Purr. Henry frowned at the sudden change. Drop Drip…Meow. Henry jolted from his break and turned his head both ways. No one’s here, just me. Henry closed his eyes once again. MEOW. Henry looked down and saw where the source was coming from. A small black cat. “Oh, hello my little furry friend got caught in the storm too huh?” Henry bent down and looked at the timid feline. The cat purred in response and licked his nose with its tiny tongue.

“We are both stuck here until it calms, I guess…well hopefully it won’t get too dangerous here.” Henry chuckled at his own nervousness.

The cat tilted its head in response. Its yellow eyes glowed like a car’s headlights. It stared intently at the man and seemed to understand him. The cat went to the side of the building and looked back at the man.

“What is it? Why are you leaving me so soon?” Henry's facial expression turned sad. He liked having a small companion with him. Made him less alone in this frantic weather.

The cat meowed again and twirled in a circle. This little guy wants me to come along? Henry went up to the cat and watched it twirl again in response. Well, what other choice do I have? Henry and the cat walked together in the alleyway. The rain was still boisterous but was less harsh in this area. The cat paused and turned its head. It went up against a pipeline and beneath it was a wide deep tunnel. Its paws mashed on the muddy dirt, and it slid under, meowing its friend to follow. Henry caught on to the signal and ducked underneath the surprisingly large tunnel.

Both travelers crawled underneath the mysterious tunnel. The sound of rain was more like a drum beating. Light blasted in the darkness as they crawled further to it. Once they reached the end of the tunnel there was a new alley. There was no messy weather. Just a clear sky and trees bristling with the wind.

“How? It's like I entered a whole new world.” Henry wanted to discover more but his feline friend was already on the lead. “Oh, hold up, I’m coming, I’m coming”.

They stopped at a cyclone fence and the cat looked around. It leaped high in the air and went over the fence, later, it signaled his tall friend to do the same.

Henry chuckled again. “Well, I can’t jump very high like you do.” Henry climbed the fence and observed his new surroundings when he landed. No rain. No blazing winds. And no harsh storms. It was just a dead end. The only thing that was there was an empty trash bin laying on the ground. The cat pushed the lid and went inside the garbage bin. Henry doing the same.

Henry felt the surface become smoother and soon was sliding down as if he was at a park. At the very end he reached the destination and slid down next to his friend and ally. The cat ears perked up when it noticed him and motioned him to look around.

Henry looked around and noticed the number of antiques and valuable objects. It ranged from trophies, photos, record players, jewelry, and even furniture. Henry was quite shocked at how a small cat could even find a spot like this. I wondered if it even collected some of this stuff too. From raging storms and heavy rain to a secret stash of treasure. Henry felt like a pirate at that point. He saw old board games too and even a golden crown. This feels like a reward. Henry smiles to himself. Henry saw the cat looking at a photo and meowing very sadly. Henry sat down next to it and noticed the picture resembled a family.

“Oh, was this your family?” Henry mentioned as he picked up the photograph. He looked back at the cat and saw the sadness in its eyes. Oh, maybe you had a family or just really lonely. An idea popped up in his head. “Hey, my little friend, I have something to tell you.” The cat looked up and placed its paw on his knee, showing that it was listening. “How would you like to be a part of my family? I have one too.” Henry pointed at the photo and then at himself. The cat understood this, and its tail raised up a bit.  Now that I think about it, you need a name too . “And how about a name?” Henry said as the cat looked at him with curiosity. “Let’s name you….” Henry looked around and tapped his chin. “How about Treasure?” The newly named cat purred in happiness. “Once the storm clears up from the other side, we can go back home.” He petted his new companion and family member on the head and let Treasure cuddle up on his chest. The raging storm may have been a nasty one, but Henry was happy to be saved by a very smart cat named Treasure.


Sensitive content: Sexual violence, mental health Kate sneezed as she dropped another cardboard box in the dusty basement of her childhood home. Every time she felt accomplished in loading up an entire box, the room seemed to spit more things out to sort through. She felt annoyed that the sole responsibility for organizing and cleaning up her parents house fell on her. The least Jason could do is step up for once in his life and be a good son. Then again, she really didn’t want to have to interact with her brother, they’ve never had much of a relationship beyond awkward forced family get-togethers.

Since their parents died, the duties included organizing the funeral and the celebration of life, getting the finances in order, cleaning out the house, working with the realtor to get everything in shape for showings…. the list goes on. Jason had made no effort to help with anything. He simply showed up to the will reading, was pleased by the generous amount our parents left him and disappeared. This behavior was typical, as he’d always viewed our parents as some sort of ATM. He shows up to celebrate Christmas… because he knows there’s a nice Christmas cash gift. He loves you… but could you do him a favor? Tip for tap.

Meanwhile, Kate has focused her entire life on being the best child, the best daughter she could be for her parents. Always supportive, always there to talk to, showing up to every family gathering she could. She was reliable, trustworthy, always thinking of them first…. And yet, Jason somehow always ended up being the golden child. Despite his many wrongdoings, they just acted like he could do no wrong, even at the expense of Kate. She tried to push Jason and her parents from her mind. This is not the time. But, being in this house again… everywhere she looked something cracked the carefully built wall in her mind.

She needed to get out. She needed a breath of fresh air. She hoisted the full cardboard box up between both of her arms, unable to see her feet and started moving as quickly as she could to the stairs. Her foot caught something on the floor on her way out and in slow motion the box flew forward while Kate tried to catch herself. “FUCK,” Kate screamed. Despite trying to clean up her language, she always defaulted to swearing during a painful bump. There was just special something about the word fuck. Anytime she stubbed her toes or slammed an elbow into a corner, somehow ‘fuck’ truly relieved some of the pain. She gathered herself on the floor looking for the culprit- a heavy book-like object. OH. It’s the old family album. Kate hadn’t seen it in years. She slowly brought herself to her feet, bent down to grab the album and brushed off the dust. A huge sigh escaped. As she made her way upstairs she felt something in her body tense up. First in her stomach, then her chest. It was like her body was begging her not to open the album, don’t go there… The chair screeched over the old wooden floor as she sat down at the kitchen table. Kate stared vacantly at the album. This was the moment she could turn back, not open Pandora's box. Against her body, she opened to a random page - there in front of her was an old family picture. One of those pictures where everyone was forced to coordinate what they were wearing to appear like a united family.. Her mom and dad were both wearing red Jcrew v-neck sweaters while she opted for a white shirt/red cardigan combo. Jason of course was wearing something barely passable for the photo. Despite her parents buying him a brand new sweater, he opted for a heavily worn off color, long sleeve polo shirt that clearly had seen better days. This photo must be at least 10 years old, Kate being in maybe the 9th grade, Jason in 12th. After getting past the in-your-face color scheme of red sweater against blue background, Kate couldn't help thinking about that day. While everyone is smiling in the photo, the entire drive to the photography studio was painful. There had been a big blow out fight between her mother and brother, resulting in Kate hiding out in her room until it was time to leave. Sitting in the car ride over, Kate knew better than to try to involve herself in whatever the situation was, no one liked her opinions anyways. Or really, no one cared how it made her feel. Her father took the complete ignorance route. Truly, to this day, Kate has never met a man better at ignoring his life.

Looking back down at the fakeness of the smiles, Kate cringed.

“If only I could tell you, you’re going to be okay,” she thought, looking at her younger self. “You’re so strong and you’ll be proud of the person you become.” Kate felt her chest expanding and contracting. Every time she thought she had processed and dealt with her family trauma, her mind without a moment's warning would completely humble her. She stood up and fumbled through the junk cabinet in the kitchen and after scrambling through rubber bands, bottle openers and pins, she pulled out a pen. Next she grabbed a floating paper in her bag from the realtor. She was going to write herself a letter. Her younger self. After many years in therapy, Kate had finally accepted that her psychologist may actually know what she’s doing, despite how ridiculous the “homework” felt. Kate had been putting off the journaling/writing portion of her treatment for a long time. She felt like she needed to give this version of herself some support. A version of herself that was drowning in hurt with no lifebuoy’s in sight.

….. Once it was complete, Kate folded up the paper and tucked it away in her bag. She placed the shoulder strap over her chest and decided she was finished for the day. She made her way through the house, turned off all the lights and made sure everything was packed away before heading to the door. She paused in the open doorway for a moment and looked back inside.No matter how difficult confronting your own pain may be, once you allow yourself to face it, there was always a sense of peace and acceptance. The letter Kate wrote is as follows- You’re not cold and emotionless. No matter how many times you were told, no matter how much you started to believe this, you were not. Survival. That’s what guided the ups and downs, the choice of when to hold your tongue. Speaking up had consequences, or even worse, was met with empty eyes. Your feelings didn’t matter.

You chose to get out, you chose to find your freedom, but freedom had a price. Compliance. You had to comply with the things that were outside of your control. And soon, compliance turned into so carefully managing the chaos of the day to day. “Don’t rock the boat”, “I don’t want to make things harder for them than they already are, '' you repeated to yourself. A child. And you weren’t the child they needed to worry about. The cries for help you didn’t even understand took over your psyche. It’s easier to focus on your body than it is to face the sadness of your reality. A dimple on your thigh shouldn’t exist, your legs are wider than your friends and look how disgusting your eating habits were. Food was the only momentary escape, but nothing beat the extreme relief that washes over you after completing the ritual. Hanging over the toilet, finger down your throat, you release your demons. You can’t help but laugh at how euphoric the experience of "removing the weight off your shoulders” is. Even then, there was no need to worry about you. I’m here to remind you life is fluid, the trials and triumphs you experience are temporary. You will see growth, but with growth comes pain. Pain from the elements of your life that are buried so deep so you can survive each day. Pain from allowing yourself to question. You vividly remember when he touched you and logically you knew it was wrong, but you needed to survive. So you put it away. So deep, it feels like a distant dream with no emotions attached to it. Finally, years later, your body collapses to the floor, unable to ignore these memories burned into your mind. Only then do you realize the gravity of what happened. Saying it out loud will make it real. That’s too scary. It's okay to need more time for the words to make it to your lips.

These lessons, as hard as they may be, are truly what freedom is. The buttons that have been so carefully placed inside of you are useless now, they cannot control you anymore. You have freedom to live true to yourself. I write to tell you of your strength, of how much you will overcome. I write to urge you to be kind to yourself. To love yourself. Most importantly I urge you to protect yourself. Just because someone means well, does not mean their actions should be free of consequence. You have every right to be hurt, to protect yourself and demand boundaries. You don’t owe anyone anything. You weren’t created to serve someone else's purpose. To serve as someone else’s doll of accomplishments, thrown aside and ignored when you become too inconvenient, only to be pulled out to show off when it suits them.

You are more than just a good daughter. You are a light soul, full of love, full of creativity, full of depth to share with the world. You fill up others’ cups. It’s funny how you don’t even realize the difficulty of the twisted burdens you were forced to bear - a testament to your strength. Life won't go exactly how you think or hope, but you are a stronger person in the pieces of yourself you didn’t even know were weak. Be proud. A coddled grape makes a simple, uncomplicated wine. The best, most interesting wine is made from a grape that has struggled, deprived of water, fighting to live.


He stared at the circulating propellors that rotated opposite to the ticking clock prepared to awaken him from his trance. “I don’t want to get up,” he grumbles as he turns to view a beam pinpointing the very reason he desired to stay in bed. He smiles as his mind takes snapshots of the auburn angel sharing his realm. A constant gentle breeze was heard proceeding from her nostrils as the securely wrapped covering portrayed her impeccable anatomy. Her lips remained unlocked and arched in a position that enticed the gentleman to connect his lips to awaken his sleeping beauty. Her eyelids unfastened slowly to reveal their secrets behind the curtain. “Good morning babe,” her sweet-sounding audio coming from her mouth penetrated the man's soul and caused him to shiver. “You are so beautiful,” he says. “I don’t know why God blessed me with such an angel.” His words made her smile increase as she sits up, causing her covering to disengage so the gentleman could engage. “Aww. I love you too Ben.” Ben's days over the past few years had become routine. He would wake up, view his gorgeous wife, kiss her luscious lips, take a shower, put on a suit, go downstairs, admire his wife and her sheer lace gown, and then eat her breakfast. “You smell so delicious. I just want you on a plate.” Ben said as he wrapped his arm around her waist. “I am pretty sure you already had that for breakfast. So this is brunch,” she giggles as she pushes Ben. “Stop before your son comes downstairs.” Ben smiles and heads to the table to check his emails on his phone. The sound of small feet is heard approaching quickly. “Here comes your mini-me,” Ben’s wife says as she places a plate on the table. “I gotta hide,” Ben says as he runs behind the couch. “Good morning baby.” “Morning Mommy!” A light voice is heard in the kitchen. “Is daddy playing?” “Yes, baby. Go find him.” “Yay!” The pattering recommences as the mini detective searches the room. Ben contains his laughter as he crouches behind the couch. It isn’t long before his future linebacker targets him and takes him to the ground. “Oomph,” Ben grunts as the young human hops on him. “I found you, daddy! I win!” “You sure did buddy,” Ben says laughing as he clutches his son. “You win a free delicious breakfast!” “Yay!” Ben places his son down and watches him sprint back to the kitchen. “Breakfast is delicious like always,” Ben says as he places his plate in the sink. “Yes, mommy. It’s amazing!” Ben’s son adds as syrup attaches to the perimeter of his mouth. “Only the best for my men,” his wife replies as she joins Ben at the sink. “So is there time for dessert?” Ben says as he gently lays kisses upon her neck which causes confusion in her knees. “Stop,” she whispers and giggles. “You will be late for work. Plus you already got dessert.” “I have a sweet tooth,” Ben says as his weakened wife turns to face him. “Go to work, and we’ll see about a full spread tonight.” She kisses his lips to transfer the weakness back in order to push Ben away. “I’ll build up an appetite.” “Are we going to a buffet,” his son asks as he enters the vicinity. His parents laugh. “No. Your daddy is just playing. Go wash up,” the boy's mother says as she ushers him upstairs while Ben washes the dishes. They smile at each other as they part. “Don’t forget you have the dental procedure this evening. I will be there after work since you can’t drive. Probably about 4:45 pm. Hopefully, they will be releasing you then so I don’t have to wait.” “Yeah,” Ben replies as he grabs his backpack. “I really don’t want to go. You know I hate being put to sleep.” A bronze goddess's hand gently touches his cheek for reassurance. “It will be ok. And just know I will be there when you wake up.” The two kiss. “That’s something I always look forward to.” The couple kisses again as a young soul becomes disgusted. “Eww! That’s how you get cooties!” “Yes, little man. Remember that.” The mother shakes her head. “We have to let daddy go. So hug him before he leaves.” Ben holds his arms out and braces for impact to his abdomen. And within a few seconds, he was not disappointed. “I’ll see you later little man. Ok?” “Ok, daddy. Have fun at the doctor.” Ben smiles and walks out the door. The light stares at Ben as he waits for the procedure to commence. “Alright Mr. Williams, are you ready?” the dentist says as her nurse starts to place instruments on the table beside his chair. Ben takes a deep breath knowing that he was about to lie. “Yes ma'am.” The assistant stands over Ben with a clear mask. “You have beautiful eyes,” he says out loud. She smiles. “Thank you. Now please count backward from 10.” “10…9…8…” “Higher daddy!” Ben visualizes a playground with his son. He pushes him higher. “Not too high,” a sweet voice says beside him. “Just a little bit higher.” He pushes his son on the swing one more time. “Yay!” When the swing returns, it is empty. “Ben?” He turns to look at his wife whose face has shifted into sheer terror. “Ben!” He peeks through his eyelids to see the light continuing to stare brightly at him. The windows to his soul start to shutter multiple times as he attempts to awaken. He glances around the room where he discovers a figure sitting in a chair. The figure spots his gaze and steps toward the bed. “Ben!” His drowsiness doesn’t allow him to decipher who the figure was, but he was sure it must be his wife. He then gives up the fight and closes his eyes to return to the darkness. “Doctor, he is waking up.”

In the darkness, he visualizes his wife greeting him as she did every morning. She stares with her gorgeous brown eyes and leans over to kiss him. “Wake up,” she whispers as the clock ticks. “Wake up Ben!” She says louder as the clock's ticks turn into a beep. She smiles as the light in the room increasingly cracks the surrounding darkness.

“Wake up,” she says one more time as the beeping grows louder and more uniform. She mouths ‘I love you’ right before the darkness shatters to the light. As Ben begins his return to reality, he notices the nurse standing beside his bed, this time removing the clear mask. His face was numb, but he was able to smile at her while she returned one back. “Ben! You are awake!” He turns toward a familiar-sounding voice. As he looks, he notices someone he hasn’t seen in a long time. He determines that the medicine is still in his system because he was hallucinating. “Mom?” “Yes baby, I am here.” The woman says with tears in her eyes. “I have so much to say to you. I miss you,” he says with tears starting to flow from his eyes also. “It’s ok, baby. I’m here now.” “I love you, mom. I wish I would have said that before you left us.” “I’m here now though baby. Mommy’s here,” the figure says as Ben’s tears start to saturate the pillow. “I wish my wife and son would have met you. They would have loved you.“ The lady then grabs Ben’s hand. “Shhh. Shh. Mommy’s here.” The sensation of a real hand startled the drowsy Ben. “Am I dying?” “No you are not dying Mr. Williams,” the doctor says as she enters the room. “Hello Doc,” Ben says as he looks at the doctor before returning his eyes to the figure of his mother. “This medicine is strong because I can see my deceased mom.” “I’m here baby,” the figure says again. “Yes, Mr. Williams it’s okay. We are all here.” The doctor’s statement sent a nerve-racking shock through Ben’s mind. He instantly sits up, where he finds himself entangled in more cords than when he went to sleep. His heart pulsates at a perilous rate as a machine emulates the beat. “What is going on?” “Calm down Mr. Williams. I need you to calm down,” the doctor says as the nurse steps back. “Baby, it’s ok. Just breathe.” Ben jerks his hand away from what seems to be his mother. “No way. You died. I miss you but I know you are dead.” “Baby no. I am here. I have been here.” “Mr. Williams. Just breathe. You have been in a coma for 6 years. There was an accident.” Ben starts to rip off cords as every machine starts to scream. “Shut up! I just came in for a dental check this morning.” “Listen Mr. Williams. Please stop before they have to restrain you.” “Shut up!” Ben says as he stands up. “Where is my wife? Where is my wife at!” “Baby. You are not married.” “You are a ghost,” Ben says as he turns to look at the figure formed like his mother. “Better yet, you are a demon!” “Please sit down,” the doctor says again as two security guards enter the room. “Please sir, please sit down.” They step forward cautiously as Ben's breathing increases. “What is…What is going…” The darkness returned. This time without his son, without his wife, but with only silence. When it cracked open, the characters of the previous nightmare remained with an added item on his hands.

“Please let me go,” he pleads with tears in his eyes. “Baby it will be ok.” “I’m in hell, aren’t I? Just tell me I’m in hell.” “No, you are not.” “Where is my wife?” “You have never been married baby?” “Shut up! Where are they!” The figure turns away in tears. “Mr. Williams. Calm down. I know this is a shock. But this is real life. 6 years ago you had an accident, and you have been in a coma ever since. Your mom should have unplugged you, but she begged us to keep you going. And she has been here every day.” Ben then looks over at the motherly figure to see her crying in the chair. “That is a lie. 6 years ago there was a car accident, but only my mom was involved. And she died! And then I got married 5 years ago to the most beautiful woman on the planet and had the most amazing son with her.” “Ok, Mr. Williams. Tell me her name.” “Her name is…” Ben searches his blurry mind for the name of the love of his life, but was unsuccessful. “It’s…” “Mr. Williams, we believe during a coma some patients experience vivid dreams. They are so vivid that you cannot separate reality from fiction.” Tears flow like a waterfall from Ben’s face due to the uncertainty if they were telling the truth. “I love my wife. I know I have been married for 5 years.”

His mother returns and grabs his hand. “It’s ok. I know this is scary, but it’s real. And I’m here for you no matter what.” “If your alive, where is dad.” She looks at the doctor, who telepathically understands what her mother needs as she and the nurse walk out the door. “I’m sorry, but your dad died last year from a…” “Blood clot?” Ben says to complete his mother's sentence. “How did you know?” “Because it happened in what you and these doctors are claiming was just a dream. I went to Dad’s funeral. You weren’t there because you already died years before.” “I did tell you about it. Maybe you implemented it in your dream. But you were in a coma baby.” “Can I go outside? Please? I need some air.” “Let me ask the doctor.” Ben walks outside to inhale what fresh air he could find in the big city in order to decipher the confusion. Nothing made sense. Was he sleeping for 6 years? Was his mom alive? Or is he actually in a coma now? Did something go wrong? Are his wife and son waiting on him in another reality? What is the truth?

“Are you ok?” His mom, or what he perceived as his mom asked. “I’m not. But can you drive me to a certain place?” “I don’t know if we can yet.” “It won’t be long. I promise. And I will return to this place if I’m wrong.” “I don’t know.” “If I may,” the doctor says as she walks closer to the duo. “I think it’s a good idea. This way you can confirm what’s real and what’s not.” “Thank you, doctor.” “And I can drive to make sure nothing happens,” Ben’s mom and the doctor looks at each other and gives an assuring nod. Ben stares at the familiar city terrain from the backseat. “This is a dream. I have to be still under,” he says while shaking his head. “I know it's new, but you will get used to it. Mommy is here.” “That's the problem, it isn’t new! I saw this before. The buildings, the roads, the technology. If you claim it has been 6 years, something should look different. Android auto in your car should be a shock to me. I shouldn’t know the world recently shut down. And I shouldn’t know it's 2022.” The doctor and Ben’s mom look at each other again. “Well, honey. Somehow you got most of that right. Maybe because I was reading to you. But, you did miss one thing.” “Hold on. Stop the car! Let me out,” Ben says while manually unlocking the door. “Wait! Let us park and go with you!” Ben hops out of the rolling car and runs to the entrance of the apartment. He places a code in hoping the lady perceived as his mom was wrong. As the green light illuminated, he felt hopeful that finally, he would see the elegant mahogany face that would bring peace to this chaos.

As the door opened, he waited with great anticipation to see his lover. But it was not his lover. “Can I help you?” The statement did come from a pretty face, but it was not the face of his queen. “Hello?” Ben stood frozen in bewilderment. “Who is this?” A man says as he joins the lady at the door. “I don’t know who he is?” “I…I…I was looking for my wife,” Ben squeaks out under pooled eyes. “Wrong house man.” “How…How long have you been here?” “A year. Maybe two,” the lady responds. The dam bursts again, creating a puddle under Ben. “Are you ok man?” “I’m sorry, he is ok. Just a little overwhelmed,” the doctor says as she and Ben’s mom appear. “Momma?” Ben says as he collapses in her arms. “It’s ok baby. Let me take you home.” After a few instructions from the doctor, Ben rides to his mother’s house. “This will be a little different. When your father passed, I couldn’t stay in that house anymore, so I was able to purchase a new house with the money he left me.” Ben looks around the nicely decorated home. “Follow me,” his mom says as she walks upstairs. Ben slowly follows. “ I was also able to recreate your room the best I could remember it,” she says at the door of the bedroom. “But feel free to change it.” “I just want to lay down.” “Well take your time. Your father left us plenty of money so there is no rush to do anything. Enjoy life. Call me when you are ready to eat or go somewhere.” “Ok, mom. And I’m sorry. I appreciate you watching over me the past few years.” Ben’s mother smiles. “That is what mothers do, right?” Over the next year, Ben stayed around the house. Sometimes, he would go with his mom to a store or the doctor. But his heart would ache and long for his dreamgirl, so he preferred to stay in. Eventually, his mom did convince him to walk with her. He discovered he loved the gentle breeze and the calmness that surrounded the pathway. They were so therapeutic that by the end of the year his walks had become his new routine. One day, their walk took them to a park. He sat down and stared at the trees blowing in the wind, the squirrels stuffing their face, and the birds demanding territory. To the side, he heard laughing from the playground filled with kids. Though it was just a dream, he did enjoy pushing his son on the swings. He still didn’t understand how it could feel so real, but at least he had accepted that they were a figment of his imagination. “Ben! There you are. Are you ready to go?” “Yes, mom. I was just reminiscing on a dream I guess.” “Do we need to up your doses? Maybe that will help.” “No mom. I know it wasn’t real, but still, I loved those memories.” Ben’s mom smiles, and the two start walking. “Maybe one day I’ll bring you some real grandkids,” Ben says as he looks at the kids playing. “Nope. But we should probably leave. It’s a bad area,” Ben’s mom says as she anxiously starts to walk faster. “Why, it's not a bad area…oomph.”

Ben collapses to the ground as he feels a mini linebacker hit his abdomen. “I found you, daddy,” Ben hears as his shirt becomes instantly soaked. “What the hell?” Ben says as he looks up. “BJ?” He looks around to find that his mother had disappeared. But what he did find standing near was a figure that would bring peace to his chaos.

“Angel?”


** This story might be difficult for those who have struggled with family planning challenges ** “We’re running out of time.” Josie’s voice broke as she sat in a therapists’ office with her husband, Shawn. Josie and Shawn have been married for almost seven years. Their marriage had its ups and downs, but they have stuck by each other through it all. Josie and Shawn fit together like puzzle pieces. Josie thought that this was why they have managed to endure all of the hardships of their marriage. Josie was a strong woman who supported her husband through thick and thin, and Shawn was a funny and patient man who could make Josie laugh during the stressful times. Josie considered herself lucky enough to have found her soulmate in life. At the bottom of Josie’s heart, she knew that they would grow old together, but their lives won’t be without some regrets. Josie and Shawn are nineteen years apart. Josie was in her twenties when she married Shawn. Shawn was in his forties and already had three daughters from his prior marriage. Josie loved his daughters like they were her own. However, she was thrown into many parenting challenges since the inception of their relationship. The girls’ mom died, so their teenage years were difficult without a mother figure in their lives. Josie came along at a perfect time in their life when they needed someone to talk to regarding their many physical and mental changes. Josie was also young enough to “get it”. She was beautiful, young, and well-dressed. The girls loved it when she showed up to school to pick them up. She also knew how to film Tik Tok’s, and she could take them to all of the coolest concerts in town. The best part is that Josie had an awesome job in New York City. She had perks of traveling to the big city and having access to an awesome office building and nearby restaurants and department stores. Josie enjoyed married life a lot. She missed out on having a happy family unit as a kid, so she was happy to have a happy family with her husband and her stepdaughters. Despite the challenges of being in a blended family, Josie wanted to have one experience to call her own. She missed the “baby” stages of all of the girls. She never experienced the joy of raising the girls from day one. She also didn’t have those experiences of being in a delivery room with her husband. While they were as happy as they could be for a blended family, Josie felt like she was missing out on that aspect of life. The struggle came when Josie was in her mid-thirties. All she could hear was the sound of her biological clock ticking. While she still felt like she had time to have kids (women have healthy babies in their forties, after all), she felt herself being a sponge to the criticism of the world. Everywhere she looked on social media, she saw comments about how motherhood is for the young. She saw people question if she really wanted to be one of the oldest moms in the room at her child’s graduation. She saw children of “older” parents who lamented about how they were embarrassed by their older parents who were sometimes mistaken for their grandparents. Josie second guessed if she really wanted to put her future children through that. The additional problem is that her husband is in her fifties by now. Two of his daughters are legally adults now. One of them is graduating from high school next year. Was it really fair of her to expect him to start over – especially this late in life? Josie loved Shawn with all of her heart. Ending their marriage to find someone younger just wasn’t an option. She couldn’t imagine her life without Shawn. Josie wrestled with many questions that kept her awake at night. After months of not sleeping and having a war raging in her mind, she thought that it was best to visit with a therapist to try and make peace with her life. Josie poured her heart out to the therapist regarding her first session with the therapist. She didn’t expect the flood of tears and emotions that occurred during their first session. The therapist was kind and compassionate to hear her points of view. After her first therapy session, the therapist asked to meet Shawn. She thought that it would be best to hear his point of view about their marriage and relationship. The last thing that Josie wanted was for Shawn to feel that he was being guilted in to having more children, but she agreed to convince him in to come to an appointment with her. Josie, Shawn, and their therapist, Suzie, sat on the couch awkwardly after making introductions. With such a delicate topic, no one wanted to be the first to break the ice. The stress wore on Josie enough that she burst in to tears after a few minutes. Shawn looked at Josie with a mixture of concern and hesitation while he tried to find the words to say. “We don’t have much time,” Josie said. “I’m not getting any younger, and we need to make a decision regarding our future.” Some stress appeared on Shawn’s face, but he tried to be as sensitive to Josie’s pain as he could. “Honey, I know how much you have wanted to have a baby. I couldn’t dream of withholding that from you. You have been such a good mom to the girls, and they’re all grateful for you,” Shawn said in a kind voice. Josie couldn’t dream of making him start over, and she was afraid of the ridicule that he might receive from his friends and family. Shawn’s two siblings were younger than him, and they were already grandparents. What would they think about his situation? Shawn, Josie, and Suzie had an extra-long therapy session to sort through all of the topics that they wanted to discuss. A typical session was 90 minutes. Shawn and Josie sat in their counseling session for almost three hours. Suzie almost missed the pick-up window for her two children until she realized what time it was and called her husband to take care of it. Josie still didn’t have any clarity or peace by the end of their counseling session. She and Shawn eventually drove home. The silence was deafening during their 15-minute drive home to their brick house in the suburbs. The issue didn’t come up again for the about a month when Josie’s and Shawn’s life changed forever. About a month after Josie’s and Shawn’s appointment with the therapist, Josie thought that she had the flu. She was throwing up in the bathroom for the past week, and she was unusually tired. She didn’t think anything of it, because she was overworked and tired during the past couple of weeks. Josie tried to take on extra projects to take her mind off of things at home, so surely that was the explanation for her feeling unwell. The phone rang while Josie was sitting on the cold tile floor of her bathroom. Reluctantly, Josie picked up the phone. She didn’t feel like talking to anyone, but she thought that some external contact would help her take some mind off of things. Her sister-in-law was calling. “Hey! What are you doing?!”, Sharon bellowed on the phone. Her exuberant personality lifted Josie's spirits. “Nothing much….,” Josie trailed off in a monotone and exhausted voice. “Uh oh, is everything ok?” Sharon asked. Josie explained the situation to Sharon, and Sharon went quiet. Josie wasn’t sure if the call disconnected or if Sharon was just in shock. After a few seconds of silence, Sharon asked, “Have you taken a pregnancy test?’ Josie rolled her eyes at the suggestion. “I don’t believe that I’m pregnant, you goof. I probably just have the flu,” Josie responded. “Josie! You’re not listening to me. Do your boobs hurt? Have you been peeing more than usual?” Sharon asked. Josie paused to think it over. A few seconds later, she said, “Um, yes?” Sharon said, “I’m in Hoboken now. I’m swinging by the CVS and then coming over.” Josie sat on her couch with her heart pounding for the next 20 minutes. What would she tell Shawn? Could this be real? How would they handle raising a baby and planning for Shawn’s retirement? A flood of questions came into Josie’s mind. She hugged her cat to her chest and tried to stay calm. Sharon arrived at Josie’s doorstep with a jug of Sunny D and a pregnancy test. The next five minutes seemed to drag on until the end of time. Sharon sat with Josie and held her hand and tried to keep her calm. After five minutes, Sharon ran in to the bathroom to check on the test, because Josie didn’t have the heart to look. Sharon gasped and then started screaming, “Aaaahhhhh! Congratulations! It’s positive.” Josie sat there in shock and didn’t say anything. She didn’t feel excitement, just concern. She felt concerned about whether she really wanted to spend the next few years dealing with diapers and potty training. The next years after that would be pre-school drop offs and a potentially picky eater. How would this baby relate to her three sisters who are old enough to be this baby's parent? She also didn’t look forward to the emotions that come with teenagers and then saving for another kid’s college. “I’m not really that excited, Sharon. What does that tell you?” Josie finally said. She hung her head with the realization at how horrible it sounded and how maybe the grass isn't always greener on the other side. Sharon’s demeanor changed from excited to concerned. “What are you going to do?” Sharon asked. “I don’t know,” Josie responded. “Whatever I decide to do, I won’t have much time.”