If our parents hadn’t made us too middle class to fight, scratch, blackmail, we could sort this out on daytime TV. Instead, I’ve made her cry.
She lets him in. But the conversation is somber and she is guarded, not because the man is a stranger, but because he is not.
Thanksgiving just passed and I made your famous pistachio pudding that you made especially for me on this holiday. It brought back memories.
The door closed, her plane pulled away, and she was gone. A long journey home in the car, and silent sorrow from the two children in back.
Looking at the tiny photo, I feel a slight tug of 69 years. My dad: a World War II soldier. Your mom: an officer’s wife. Are you my sister?
Picked my sis up from rehab today. Dad says she did well, but I know better. I told him to check her undie drawer, he didn’t and he won’t.