Don’t Forget to Write

by Sara Goodman Confino

My parents loved me because I was their child. But there was a lot they would change in me if they could. Ada was under no such obligation to love me. And, no matter how many critiques she had of my behavior and manners, she wouldn’t change a thing.

Leaving her felt like I was leaving a piece of myself behind. But I was stronger for having known her. And even if I never did see her again, that part of her would always be with me.

She didn’t understand. And she never really would. She looked at the world through her own lens and didn’t know how to see it through mine.

Being with him felt like home.

So when I woke, it took me a minute to remember what was real and what wasn’t. And once I did, I didn’t want to get out of bed. It would be so much easier to stay under the white coverlet, selected by Ada, and let the grief consume me until I joined her.

He said it didn’t matter if you were Black, white, green, or purple. If someone was a good person and needed your help, you helped them if you could.”

I think love looks different to different folks.”

The amount of money and properties that the lawyer had outlined was quite simply staggering. I could buy and sell my parents many times over. I could buy a villa in the south of France. But without Ada, it was a hollow victory. “I’d give it all back for ten more minutes,”

He was a product of his time. And not everyone could be like Ada and reject the norms that they were raised in. Not everyone wanted to. I saw that now.