The Missing Half

by Ashley Flowers

When someone dies, most people’s reaction is to slap some reductive, feel-good label on their legacy. Her smile could light up a room. He was the life of the party. The claims are so blanketed, they leave no room for nuance, for reality.

You still have me, I want to say. You still have one daughter left.

So much between us feels like a conversational landmine, and I scour my mind for something safe to talk about,

Because I was a well-behaved, middle-aged, stay-at-home mom. I was invisible.