“I’m sorry I made you bipolar.” Wait, what? My mother stood in the kitchen stoically wiping a dish that was already dry. I was stunned, and at quite a loss for words. I was already uncomfortable in this scene even without the abrupt confession. My mother’s house was so her: beautiful and unwelcoming. She had… Read More The Apology
That tattered leather chair was so obviously out of place in the otherwise immaculate décor of our house. It was old, black, and tired, with tiny fissures running down the back cushion like a colony of persistent spider webs. The top skin of leather had been worn off of the seat in soft beige spots… Read More The Chair
It was Christmas Eve, maybe 1978. I was eight years old, or whatever age you are when you are at the tail end of believing in Santa. My parents and I were around the corner at the annual Parker family Christmas party. Their trendy seventies mocha brown paneled interior was warm and welcoming and the… Read More Santa is a Dick
Grace, Under Fire 