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Tiny Love Stories: ‘The One-Liners Kept Coming’

Tiny Love Stories: ‘The One-Liners Kept Coming’

“I’ll gladly pay you Tuesday for a Coke today.” The last words my father said to me. I had just brought him a Coke, fulfilling a raspy request from his deathbed. At first, I thought his offer was gibberish spurting from his rapidly progressing neurodegenerative disease. When I told my mom, she immediately understood — he was riffing on Wimpy’s catchphrase from the “Popeye” cartoon. In those final days, the one-liners kept coming: Could I get him anything? A winning lottery ticket. Anyone he wanted to see? Bob Dylan. He didn’t make it to Tuesday, but his debt had been repaid. — Susannah Clark Matt

Our love story sounds straightforward: Meet at a Bible study in rural Missouri, fall in love on a service trip and marry after college graduation. The plot twist? We’re both women. Before we met, Alison and I had exclusively dated men. Our relationship moved quickly from friendship to love, so many around us thought it was a passing fling. We faced a mountain of skepticism from religious family members, but it melted into understanding over time. Now, 15 years and a child later, we choose each other time and again. To us, that’s the definition of a happy ending. — Sarah Shebek


“It’s not just a car!” our 7-year-old daughter, Addie, wailed from inside her room. “It’s Baby Gladys.” No one could remember how our car got its name, but Addie had ridden in its cluttered back seat since she was a baby. She had laughed, cried and shared the types of inner thoughts that are easier to say aloud when you’re peering out a window. She had created inside jokes and imaginary worlds with her brother that no one else understood. When we traded it in, she left a note inside the glove compartment: “Please take good care of Baby Gladys.” — Genevieve Quist Green

My mother kept saying, “I haven’t done enough for you.” I kept telling her that traveling from West Virginia for over a week was plenty. The exchanges took place while she was preparing me food — a peanut butter sandwich, masala chai, my favorite lamb curry — in my tiny deathtrap of a New York studio kitchen. I had just had surgery, and although not rendered helpless, daily chores and cooking weren’t possible. When she left, I still had aches and pains. However, my biggest dilemma was ensuring the contents of my now well-stocked freezer didn’t pour out at each opening. — Anupama Chakravartti


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