When We Were Widows

by Annette Chavez Macias

My father was shot during a robbery at our neighborhood liquor store when I was only eight years old.

In fact, I remember feeling like my mom cared more about paying the bills than spending time with us.

Truth was, it took a lot for me to let go. I’d learned early on that coloring inside the lines earned you praise and respect. Being responsible and professional opened doors, especially in the corporate world, for someone who looked like me. I never wanted to give anyone a reason to doubt that I had things under control.

I allowed myself to enjoy the feel of being so close to another person again. It had been so long. I hadn’t

realized just how starved my body was for this kind of touch.

I had a bad habit of shutting people out when I didn’t feel like baring my soul—or being judged about what my soul would expose about me.

It was hard to set up boundaries after you’d kind of crossed them already.