They are part of my life’s topography. Tiny specks on my map of choices, loves and losses, hurts and heartbreak. By Jordan Namerow
Losing my mother, especially at a young age, was like losing my compass. By Gina Luongo
My mom took off her scarf and revealed her bald head. We all braced ourselves, but the woman at the shop didn’t flinch. By Kandace Chapple
On carrying grief forward, not getting over it. A Motherwell interview with Nora McInerny.
So much of who we are has to do with how we think about our own parents and our own childhood.
Next to Orion’s Belt are two dimmer stars. These are the babies I lost, one before each of my sons. By Julia Pelly
Our daughter asked good questions—what about the other baby? Were we sad? Why did it happen? By Cynthia Nuara
I sent you a bowl of black stones because of the hardness of loving a child for exactly who he is. By Brianne DeRosa
If my belly was round and full of baby, would I hate my body less? This body that betrayed me. By Brittany Wren
It had been a long time since I’d heard her laugh. It felt like clouds parting. By Stewart Lewis
Time heals so much of what goes wrong in life, but the memory of what happened to Mum on that day still makes my body react. By Clover Stroud
You will be in your slippers, making waffles, and suddenly remember that your mother is dead. By Brianne DeRosa
After we gave it all to Goodwill, I lived in fear every day that I would see somebody else wearing my mom’s clothes. By Kandace Chapple
“Momma was crying last night,” my seven-year-old said. “She was crying because you left our family.” By Erik Raschke
Perhaps the fish were feeble replacements for all that we had lost, but they were also hopeful things. By Samantha Shanley
Fourteen teenagers and three teachers are dead who were not dead a few of weeks ago, and my house is falling apart, and my children are at school. By Brianne DeRosa
Nobody will send flowers. You don’t even have a face to conjure when you think of this child. By Maggie Downs
For what seems like a single frame of the video, I see my child silhouetted in the lights of the oncoming car. By Ian Smith
I wait for sleep, for the fever to break, the tooth to fall out, the rash to go away.
By Zsofia McMullin
All the years of doing and hoping, praying and sculpting—you wait to see if it worked.
By Lisa Romeo
The swings she used to ride are still moving, but she’s long gone, and I realize it’s only the wind.
By Robin L. Flanigan
I can’t imagine spreading my legs and letting doctors make quick work of this loss.
By Nicole Piasecki
I am shocked still by the parenting moments that break my heart.
By Catherine Newman
Both my children hate being around me and water—I’m the parent whose urgent, borderline hysteria ruins all the fun.
By Christie Tate
What makes this an exceptional book is that it always steers its eye away from self-pity and toward a greater understanding of love and acceptance.
Abigail Rasminsky and Mira Ptacin