Making it official (again)
“Okay girls, here’s the scoop,” my mom texted. “Daddy and I are getting married.” Fifty-two years after their marriage, 27 years after their divorce and 18 years after he moved back in, they made it official (again). She insisted there was no hassle. My sister and I insisted that fuss was the whole point. I flew from California to Vermont, writing the ceremony along the way. They sat in chairs on the lawn between the porch and the driveway. They took their vows and put their original rings back on. We had sandwiches and cake. Then my father went back to bed. † Liz Brown
One coin, three sides
When I was 5, I showed my father the back of my hand, “This is my Indian side.” I turned my hand around: “And this is my white side.” My father spoiled me until I was about 7, when he patiently explained, “It doesn’t work like that, honey. Everyone’s palms are lighter than the backs of their hands. You don’t literally have ‘two sides’.” Now, at 29, I look at my tan hand and I still see both my parents — but also the possibility in their mixture. I have two sides and I create a third. † Sitara Mahtani
The life we couldn’t leave behind
Isabel and I became friends when we were 14, and spent many sleepless nights talking – until our feelings overflowed and we discovered that pleasure, how women could experience it deeply. For years we have hidden our love. It was then difficult to maintain a lesbian relationship in São Paulo. We gave up. I haven’t spoken for 15 years, I got married and had two boys. In 2020 we will have online contact again. Two months after our personal reunion, we left our separate lives to start a new life (or perhaps resume the life we had before). We are now married. Our feelings are still overflowing. † Mariana Lobato Botter
Clarity in a six-week recovery
The operation was successful, I heard through the fog of fading anesthesia. Before my hysterectomy, my boyfriend and I discussed my resulting infertility — that even if we wanted to try for a baby, my missing body parts would eliminate the possibility. Would the two stepchildren we shared compensate for my inability to create babies that shared our DNA? My six-week recovery cemented the way the four of us had built a rhythm together over the years. As I watched them take care of me and each other, I realized that nothing that mattered had been surgically removed. Our family was already complete. † Heather Sweeney