It was a privilege – a gift – to be that person, something she gave me even as I lost her. I helped her to die, and in so doing she helped me to live. She was my mother-in-law, and I loved her fiercely.
I am the one who always makes the plans here. Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays, vacations. And when they go wrong, I get the flack. So . . . I told them all (Dad included) that I didn't want to make the plans for my own birthday.
“These new houses don’t have many built-in bookcases,” I said to Cliff after we toured a model. “And the open floor plans don’t allow much space to add our own.”
“You’ll need to give away a large quantity of your books,” he said calmly.
Writing my first novel in my 40s and 50s was actually my first foray into storytelling, and much of what I did in service to this impulse was driven by a kind of recklessness I didn’t know I possessed.
It’s a terrible feeling to know how much you can offer a business or employer, only to be blocked from ever stepping foot into the building to shake anyone’s hand, simply because the electronic job search system has predetermined you to be an old g...
They maintained this friendship, not taking it “to the next level” for some time. After all, he was a very observant Jewish boy and she was raised as a Catholic. There would be no future in a romantic relationship between them. Or would there?