On Growing Into My Motherhood

At 24, home meant a rundown farm house that was a bit off the grid in the Maryland countryside. My partner and I had been together only a few months and hastily moved there when I discovered I was pregnant. The house belonged to my grandfather, a wealthy lawyer with a taste for liquor which I’d undoubtedly inherited. He was now living in a nursing home, suffering end-stage dementia. Though its carpet smelled like mildew and the spiders were as big as my fist, that house was our saving grace….

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What It Really Means to Love “Like a Mother”

She stands in the kitchen looking at me. Her hair is stringy and needs to be brushed. She’s shifting from side to side uncomfortably, unsure of what I’m doing there or what to say. Her brother overdosed last night. Her mother is my good friend, and the swirling vortex of grief and community sucked me into her kitchen, stocking the refrigerator and tidying the counters because that feels like something when there’s nothing. “I don’t know how to make lasagna,” she says, glancing at the pan I’m sliding into the…

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