I wish this were fiction, but it’s not.

Photo by Kat J on Unsplash

In the midst of the pandemic, I’m working furiously from my home office. Eighteen-year-old Jacob is filling out college financial aid applications from his laptop and my twelve-year-old, Michael, has been poking his head into my office repeatedly, all day long.

“Mom, what are you doing?” “Mom, are you OK?”…

I can never go home again.

I distinctly remember the day I found out. I came home from work, and my dad’s face was ashen. “I need to tell you something. You’d better sit down.”

I sat at the dining room table, my purse digging into my shoulder, my work shoes still pinching my toes. “Your…

It’s a sticky situation.

I used to hear the term sandwich generation and imagine a couple living in their 3 bedroom, 2 bath home. They would pull in and out of the driveway curving into their tidy lawn, scuttling back and forth between their jobs, their children’s school performances and sports practices, and their…

I baked it to say goodbye.

My mother calls from out-of-town with a request. Her friend is dying, and she’s asked for her favorite lemon cake. I agree to make it and deliver it to her house.

I try not to think of it the whole time I bake — how the cancer started in her…

Emlyn Sharp

Survivor of domestic violence, still holding my breath and hiding in plain sight.

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