Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Families.
Celebrating Herstory
Women didn’t divorce their husbands in 1930. Especially not without a job or way to support your children. But not my grandmother. She was not going to let her sons see her be beaten and abused or worse yet to grow up without a mother at all. So as difficult and dangerous as the decision may have been, she chose to live. Lilly Mae was a woman, an African American woman, and she was a single-mother in the South, during the Great Depression. The odds, were definitely not in her favor. But Lilly Mae, had come from a long line of strong women. Women of faith, educated, and resourceful women. Her mother was an educator. She was not the first woman in my blood line to defy the odds and certainly not the last. As I thought of the women that I felt deserved honor during Women’s History Month, I had to pay respect to my grandmother and mother. They have both taught me how not only to survive, but how to thrive, even in the midst of tremendous trials.
By Dr. Tonia The Communication Coach6 years ago in Families
To the Woman who changed my life: Thank you.
Its 1am, I’m crying loud enough for the whole of England to hear. The nightmares have taken over again for the third time this week and this time it's impossible to forget. For a brief moment I feel like I'm alone, the little 7 year old me is frightened and needs comfort. And for the slight moment of loneliness I felt not long ago, it is now replaced with a warmth when a hand is stroking my head, telling me it is all a nightmare and she is there to keep me safe. Then, with the lullaby of Que Sera Sera, I drift back to sleep with my mother lying right next to me.
By Manveen Kaur6 years ago in Families
My Husband, My Hero
The Past At first, it did not occur to me that he was abusive. He didn’t hit me. It wasn’t until after I left that I realised it was abuse. Every type of abuse except he didn’t hit me. He shouted, he lied, he stole, there was financial abuse and gaslighting (I didn’t know what that was until I read about it and realised that’s exactly what was going on). I wasn’t even sure he knew he was doing it. When he took money from me to spend on drink, I don’t know if it occurred to him that it was wrong or if he thought it was somehow acceptable.
By Sapphire Ravenclaw6 years ago in Families
The Heart of a Woman
“FIVE-DOLLAR FRIED FISH & FRIES! GET YOUR FRIED FISH AND FRIES,” I reluctantly shouted on the street corner. The summer sun was beaming down on me. I could see the heat waves rippling through the air as people drove passed me, ignoring my offer. My mother watched as I waved our sign with very little fervor. I could hear her mumbling to herself in Creole. Her mumbles turned into extended teeth sucking, the kind only Caribbean women can produce out of frustration.
By The Creole Griot 6 years ago in Families
My mother, my true hero.
As a child, I witnessed my father beating my mother. My siblings and I would run away when he got in one of his moods. On these nights, we waited outside and kept watch for the lights to go out. That was our signal that it was safe to return. It would take hours some nights. When the lights went out, we knew our father had fallen asleep. We would tiptoe back inside and continue sleeping. So many times, like me, she cried for mercy when no longer able to bear the pain. My mother wore sunglasses to work the following day to cover up the bruises. The more I thought about my mother, the more I realized would end up just like her if I did nothing.
By Grace James Kumkee6 years ago in Families
One Wedding Day
My mother woke me with a tender swipe above my cheek and for a second as my eyes seem to draw to focus I thought I saw my mother in her younger years instead of now with grey peppered locks that hung to the left side of her aged face with her glowing life filled eyes of my childhood.
By Sabiyya Brown6 years ago in Families
In Sickness and in Health . . . and in motherhood.
I wanted to write a story about someone other than my mother. You see, mothers can be tricky, because they don’t always do what’s fair or what’s fun at the moment, and they’re really easy to see as imperfect once you realize they’re human. My mother, though, I realized while thinking of a public figure like Michelle Obama or Hilary Clinton, to write about, isn’t just my mom, she’s a woman who immigrated to America from Haiti at the age of 17 and raised me and my siblings in the worst worst circumstances possible, in order to give us a chance at life.
By A. L. Michael6 years ago in Families
The woman I was named after
Fragile yet strong hands that depicted years of hard work endured. From farming, cooking, trading constantly to feed her children, my grandma was a strong woman. Brown skin like the silkiest of chocolate relenting on her youth that was stolen by time and life. Trekking many miles on two spindly legs that required a limp in order to sustain the tingling pain she felt from her aged bones. She walked the muddy streets of Nigeria to fulfil her role as a mother as well as her responsibility to her body to replenish its many energy expenditure. Her previously 5 foot 6 inches that she was, now stood at 5 foot 2 inches due to the hunch she had obtained over her years of having to bend over to find sustenance. Her face tells the story of a life well lived. Under the harsh suns of Africa, her once fair and bouncy skin now sags on her skin like a calm wave never disturbed. Once flawlessly brown with no speckles, her skin sits on her face speckled like a chocolate chip cookie from the years of constant exposure to the harshness of the UV rays from the sun. Once plump and resistant to gravity her cheeks were sunken and her flesh no longer able to hide the secrets that the flesh of every human tried so desperately to hide. Her eyes looked tired and yet bright from the many knowledge it had absorbed from its surroundings. The sparse scattering that was her hair rested on her head like a population that was on the verge of extinction, sat aging along with her. She truly was a beautiful woman. The woman who raised me even when she had little left to give, for she had given her all to nine other kids from her womb. What she had viewed as little was immense to me because it shaped the person that I am today. I attribute my persevering nature to all the times that she never backed down no matter how impossible a situation seemed. Her humbling demeanor even to those undeserving of it taught me that my reaction to a situation was what determined the outcome. Despite her appearance that hinted to everyone she met that she was old and fragile, she commanded respect like a drill sergeant urging his soldiers to stand at attention but without the loud voice. She was the man and the woman in her house. Her independent nature is what drives me to work hard for myself relying on no one but my hard work to pave the way for me. She never caved to the patriarchal laws that society tried to place on her. In a world that required two persons to keep a house afloat, she found a way to live with one and be a great mother all at once. I reminisce of those times we spent together just the both of us, those were rare moments where you would tell me of your youth and I would look at you in wonder admiring the woman you used to be and the woman that you became. Even in death your presence in my life is unwavering. The lessons you taught me are not forgotten. This was the woman that laid the foundation of the woman I aspire to be. An independent confident woman whom even in the face of adversity finds a way to come out prosperous. I could never be the woman that she was. I could only strive to be the best version of myself because this is what she taught me.
By Sarah Musa6 years ago in Families
