If all adoptees felt not only safe, but empowered in their families and their communities, I would feel better—but not lucky.
Will my intestines turn the sacred bread into holy shit, or does the miracle not extend that far into the digestive process?
I wish I’d known Molly years ago. I wish I had known her when I was twelve years old, wondering who in my life would still love me if they knew my secret.
I wanted her language, her understanding of Honduras, a family like hers. I wanted things she could never give me.
Adoption didn’t give me a forever mother. Being in reunion with my birth mother did not make me wholly mothered, either.
Navigating the burdens of expectation as a married woman in Nigeria
The story is no longer me and my vehicles but my mother and hers. We called it an accident, but it wasn’t.
On space debris and a father’s remains.
Like a drawing is and is not mine once I’m finished with it, my son is not mine, not really, because he is himself.
In the battered barbershop chair, Faris sits slightly camouflaged and crumpled, as though he is a mystery even to himself.