I didn’t like my room when I first moved in. It didn’t have Flynn, for one thing.
“I’m glad you’re here, Will,” said David, “because Sarah and I have an announcement to make.”
That’s a heavy con for Madison (Pros: Government job benefits, Roommate Night with my best friends, a church that has become home, cheese).
I don’t know what home means without you.
But for me—a Wisconsin sports fan all too familiar with gut-wrenching disappointment—it’s difficult to fully lean into the excitement without the nagging feeling that heartbreak is on the horizon.
I’m just trying to say that given what little is truly required of uncles, it follows that the bond between parent and child, when pursued in good faith, has no parallel.
In other words, despite my litany of previous posts to the contrary, Advent may yet find me sneaking into back-row pews and singing “O Come, O Come Emmanuel.”
Get your laughs in, Midwesterners, but for eight-year-old Caitlin, Texas was paradise.
Jesse will be your second Tinder date, and your last.
We drove home and argued. Why was I so angry? About something so small? It’s not about that; it’s about the fact that I feel useless and nothing seems to be going the way it was supposed to go.
