Tiny Love Stories: ‘That Was a Fake Question’

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In the yellow house on San Marco Drive, my father did my taxes. “Do you have your receipts from the move?” he asked. That was a fake question. The real questions were stacked behind it: Are you your father’s daughter? Are your affairs — is your life — in order? “Yes,” I said proudly, producing an envelope of gasoline and fast-food receipts from my drive south, Pennsylvania to Florida. A financial diary of my fresh start. “Good girl,” he said. With him 20 years gone, I repeat those words to myself when I need his gentle hand on my back. — Maggie Galehouse

I had requirements when picking my unborn daughter’s first and middle names. They had to have a pleasing cadence. Stand out in a classroom of Caitlins and Madisons. Be immune to cruel nicknames. Sound lyrical when called at graduation. Look elegant in swirling font on wedding invitations. The names I chose fit my criteria — just not those of my sweet child, who, at age 26, phoned with news that his birth certificate would soon show two new ones. After years of struggling, Ben has newfound joy in his voice that is more lyrical than anything I could have imagined. — Maria Mihalik

“I had a great first date on Sunday,” I said to my sister Reema. “What? I met a cute guy on Sunday, too!” she replied. We were in a getting-along phase of our relationship, which has been fraught since childhood. I’m the attention-seeking baby. She’s the independent, rebellious middle child. Later that summer, we took our new boyfriends to a cousin’s nuptials. Our uncle asked us pointedly, “Who will get married next?” Fast forward three years to 2006, and we’re celebrating our joint wedding, embracing our interdependence and happily sharing the spotlight. — Ummni Khan

I was having a tough time. Big, capitalized, one-syllable problems: Work. Life. Stress. A rainy Tuesday night, my buddy texts: “Hey dude, u home?” An hour later he presses a Tupperware box into my hand. Homemade pasta Bolognese. He taught me the secret to a good ragù is time. Simmer that stuff for three hours if you can. The longer the better. Let the pot bubble away, quietly determined, always there in the background. We’ve been friends for 22 years and would never dream of saying “I love you, man.” We don’t need to. We just keep the pot bubbling. — Daniel Seifert

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