The Sublet

by Greer Hendricks

There should be a footnote attached to my family’s definition of “mother” that states cook, housekeeper, tutor, social secretary, budgeter, party planner, therapist, nurse, and morality instructor.

I choke back a laugh at the irony: I am employing a technique created by the woman who caused this anxiety—in order to quell my anxiety.

It’s more important to do what you think is right than to focus on what you’ve been doing wrong; Honesty starts with the promises you keep to yourself—and

If it feels comfortable, offer yourself a big hug. Really relish how you are holding yourself. When you’re ready, I want you to open your eyes slowly and carry that feeling as you reengage with the world around you.” I wrap my arms around myself and give a squeeze, amazed by the comfort this basic act provides.

You need to stop trying to change your body to change your life. Instead, you need to change your life in order to change your body.

“At the end of the day, does it matter your race, religion, or gender? Aren’t we all just looking to be the best version of ourselves?”

“Fourteen is a lucky number,” I say, giving Paul’s hand three little squeezes—our I love you signal—as we ascend.

I fantasize about alphabetizing my spices and wearing an apron that says I Am the Secret Ingredient while I prepare nutritious and delicious meals for my family.

If you aren’t sleeping with your partner, you can bet someone else is.

Ouch. Paul used to be unable to keep his hands off me. It didn’t matter if he’d had too much to drink, pulled an all-nighter at the office, or just gotten off a red-eye. I roll onto my side and pinch the extra flab around my waist. I think about Melody’s flat abs and her urging me to shimmy into a tight pair of jeans. Within minutes, Paul is splayed on his back, snoring.

“Stare at the darkness too long, and you’re bound to see something,”