Name Not Taken

by Madeleine Henry

We go to a costumes-encouraged thirtieth birthday party as ceiling fans, each in a sweatshirt that reads Go Ceilings and carrying megaphones.

“I realized that we must’ve made her suffer. We gave her a life that didn’t fit. We brought her into this world, wanting something she could never have—someone she could never have.”

“Maybe you’re an orphan when you have parents, but they’re not the ones you need.”

But I never hit send. In every message, I sensed that I was begging, and when you have to beg someone to stay, they’ve already left.

“Everything is a battle of perspective. There’s always a winner, and when you lose—when you decisively lose—then your view becomes the crazy one. So when people call you ‘insane,’ they’re letting you know who won.”

“But staying in that house wasn’t good for me. When no one treats you like you’re sane, it nearly drives you out of your mind.

Even more important than the milestones, though, were the ordinary days when he made me feel understood.

You can’t be tormented by someone unless you’re a little desperate for them to love you.”

“So, that explained our connection. You weren’t just in love with my son. I was the mom you never had.”

But the truth is that you cared about me. You were desperate for me to be the woman that life never gave you. For me to love and understand you in the way you never were.”

Maybe he’s beyond sad. Maybe he’s moved past the place where people go after devastating news—past that purgatory of resistance, past grief—on to somewhere new.

I remember when I sat there, thinking that I’d found my second-chance family. What do you call a second chance at a second chance?

Grief is strange up close. It looks more like love than I expected.