Tiny Love Stories: ‘Like an Old Song We Can’t Stop Singing’

A former physicist and mother navigated a difficult day with dementia. She prematurely accessed her Zoom prayer meeting, inquiring repeatedly about its commencement time, a full two hours ahead of schedule. Upon realizing her error, she retreated to her bed, overcome with emotion and tears. “Life is no longer enjoyable,” she lamented, expressing a broader sentiment beyond the immediate situation. I prepared coffee and sat beside her, offering comfort. “It’s alright, Mom. You remain my closest confidante.” She fixed her gaze upon me. I returned her stare, perceiving it as a moment of tenderness. A mischievous smile then spread across her face as she playfully retorted, “Too bad for you!” This lighthearted jab, implying my unfortunate choice of companion, sparked shared laughter. In that instant, joy resurfaced amidst the difficulties of dementia caregiving. — Anna Dahland Kim

Seated in a car outside his residence, I held Karl’s hand with increased pressure, my взгляд fixed straight ahead. The frigid air hung heavy, thick with unspoken words. Moments prior, I had confessed to the young man I deeply loved that I could no longer continue as his girlfriend – a consequence of my journey in transitioning beyond the female gender assigned at birth. Exhaustion weighed upon me; months of concealing my true self and living in apprehension had taken their toll. Irrespective of my profound affection for him, my fundamental need was to embrace my authentic identity. Eventually, I summoned the resolve to turn and face Karl. His expression etched with concern, he posed a straightforward yet profound question, “But, may I still be your boyfriend?” — Benji Patwardhan


His loud snoring echoes from the bedroom above mine, a sound intimately linked with 25 years of shared life, now in a state of dissolution. We exist in an ambiguous interim, separated yet cohabitating, legally represented but maintaining civility. He remains primarily in his quarters, as do I, but our home resonates with echoes of our shared past. Disagreements arise regarding finances, the upbringing of our two children, and imbalances of influence. Nevertheless, during our customary Friday evening dinners together, I discern it: “Honey.” The term lingers, familiar and comforting, akin to a cherished song we habitually sing. Established patterns persist, proving resistant to change, even as love itself is nearing its conclusion. — Lisa Liu Grady

While tucking my daughters into bed, I posed the question, “How did I become so fortunate to be your mother?” Typically, my youngest would respond with a shrug, but on this particular evening, for an inexplicable reason, she articulated, “You endured something exceptionally challenging to attain something truly wonderful.” I had never disclosed the more somber aspects of my childhood to her. It was inconceivable that she possessed this knowledge, yet the scene I had revisited during therapy earlier that day unfolded when I was precisely her age: a violent altercation between my parents that instilled profound fear within me. In that instant, my daughter’s six-year-old self embraced my own inner six-year-old self, both experiencing a sense of security and undeniable luck. — Liz McDaniel


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