The smell was overwhelming. Not the sharp sting of hospital bleach, as I had expected, but a sickly sweet lavender smell that clung to the folds of my sweater. The room was warm and bright, the large windows overlooking acres of rolling hills dotted with sheep. My father sat in a recliner chair, the upholstery made… Read More
He’s my dad but I like to call him Bob. When I was a little he used to say “When people say ‘Bob’s your uncle’, you can say ‘actually, Bob’s my father.’” In the photos I have of him when he was young, I can see a spark of mischief in his brown eyes. It seemed… Read More
Sometimes it seems like there’s a kind of competition to see who has the shittiest life. Does my adoption, bulimia and husband’s suicide beat your job loss, chronic fatigue syndrome and divorce? Who knows … who’s judging these things?