Sweet and sour
August 1990. As we walk along the coast of Northern Ireland, we pass families picnicking, teens making out and an elderly couple holding hands as they see cargo ships approaching on the horizon. We buy lemon tops – white whipped ice cream topped with Day-Glo snacks spicy slush. Michael asks me to marry him in his Belfast accent that somehow makes me, a New Yorker, forget the figurative bomb threats and explosions of my parents’ bad marriage. I think Michael and I have both been through “the Troubles”. To make sure my next bite is as sweet as it is sour, I say yes. † Susan Zeloufu
Let’s not keep in touch
“Don’t ever call me again,” I told my mother. Four years ago, when I was in my first semester of college and she was only divorced after 25 years of marriage, we talked every day. Our conversations about the politics of dorm living, or a bath for our family dog, can go on for hours. Now our calls are less frequent, but I’m glad to know that they are also less necessary. I’ve made friends that are hard to leave after graduation, and my mom has met someone who loves her almost as much as I do. † Liv Coron
Almost like a perfect pair
The first night in his apartment when he told me to take off my shoes, he became my home. Korean-American kinship. Our mothers were both born in Korea, our fathers in America, where we grew up. Almost instant understanding, like a perfect pair. Until the last night in my apartment, when he didn’t take off his shoes to stay, and I knew it. My leg bounced as he broke my heart. I sometimes keep my shoes on at home now. Removing it is painful, it reminds me of what we shared. I loved the way my shoes leaned on his. † Aeja Pinto
Imperfect Women
I was not the skinny daughter my Iranian mother wanted. The bigger I got, the more disappointed she was. I hated her for that. One day, when I was 13, she severely burned her hand. I was too broken to comfort her. I left, got married, had children and learned to love myself. Then I started to understand her. She was so young when she got me, so isolated and overwhelmed when she fled Iran. She thought her actions were love. We talked for years about our regrets and sorrows and found a way to love each other like imperfect women. † Rebecca Morrison
