Narratively

I was an 18-year-old father who couldn’t be there for his baby. I know, you’ve heard this one before. How about this part? Twelve years later Krystasia’s mom walked away and never came back.

I should have expected my relationship with my boyfriend to crumble during quarantine. More surprising is that I fell back in love with my husband.

My first attempt to meet him turned out to be a cover story for my parents' messy split. Thirty years later, I decided to find Pee-wee on my own terms.

As a single gay man, having a kid with my friend seemed like a great idea. But when our daughter arrived, I wondered whether planning to be a part-time dad was fair to her.

I spent almost a decade learning to be an 'only' after Matthew died. The un-learning is almost as disorienting.

People see an elderly white woman and her middle-aged black daughter and assume I must be the hired help.

I didn't think twice about the fact that we moved a lot, or that Dad always traveled separately. Then one day in middle school, Mom finally explained that we were fugitives.

I needed the stability they provided, but I resented the hole I was supposed to fill in their lives.