Last spring, when we finally gave up the dream of returning to school, I held onto September as my North Star. By Steven Newmark
They arrived. One after the other. In snowstorms. On holidays. From foreign countries. In succession—as inevitable it seemed as midterms and finals. By David Joseph
“I built it myself. What do you think?” My father didn’t look up, he just took a drink from his bottle and kept staring at the television. By John Graham
I keep waiting for the perfect moment to tell him about his true relationship to Dave. I hope he’ll understand. By Philip Langdon Ross
My father was an every-other-weekend dad, then a once-a-summer dad and, finally, a phone-it-in dad. Then we lost touch. By Stephen J. Lyons
I was a singer. She was a groupie. We decided to have a baby together. By Stewart Lewis
I’d tried to make my sons do various jobs over the years, all with disastrous results. By David McGlynn
“Momma was crying last night,” my seven-year-old said. “She was crying because you left our family.” By Erik Raschke
I was only thinking of miles, forgetting then, as I would many times, that part of parenting is sacrifice. By Paul Crenshaw
As someone with a son dead because of heroin, I couldn’t look away.
By Bill Williams
I needed to embrace the role of supportive parent, to leave the coaching to my daughter’s coaches. But I just couldn’t do it.
By Keith Landry