One crisp wafer cone. Two scoops of chocolate ice cream, hastily piled. Third Sunday of June, every year.
Lonely walk across unruly grass that tickles at exposed ankles, in search of a serenity found only among abandoned tombstones.
When you arrive, a tearful, tender whisper to yourself: “Happy Father’s Day.”
Carrie is morose, taciturn, and perpetually hungry, but only one of these traits is inherited from her father.
Sometimes, life can change in an instant.
For Sharon, it began with a series of pain waves, each one more agonising than the last. It rose, peaked, and fell. She grimaced, yelled, and cried. Inhale, exhale, repeat.
After 14 long hours, the life-changing moment finally arrived.
A healthy baby girl.
Carrie is childless and incapable of entertaining kids for more than thirty minutes at a go. However, her secret pleasure is reading children’s storybooks—to herself, alone.
Every Sunday at 10 AM, Lucy calls. Initially, I explained that she had the wrong number. But Lucy forgets. So I pretend to be her dead daughter. We talk. We laugh. We exchange I-love-yous. Every week.
It’s 10:01 AM. For the first Sunday in seven years, the phone stays silent.
Carrie has a poor memory and dislikes talking on the phone.