The Flash Memoir Contest Winners Are
Please join us in congratulating the winners of our Flash Memoir Contest. Discover their impactful stories and insights.
Below you’ll find their names, the names of their pieces, and the dates they will appear.
You can read why each one appealed below the story. Flash Memoir is a form worth pursuing. For ours we ask for 750 words or less. While we prefer that you focus on one incident, some of these focused on a recurring issue, which seemed reasonable given the fact that they illustrated something that had a major impact on the author’s life.
You can enter your stories in our Flash Fiction Contest, which is open now, our Flash Prose Contest, which opens in July, or our next Flash Memoir Contest which opens in January of 2027.
4/01/26 From Scratch By Caitlyn Tanner
4/07 Staying By Judy Halper
4/14/26 Berries and Bugs By Katelyn Goodheart
4/21/26 THE PHLEBOTOMIST By Liz Stone
4/28/26 Interwoven Love Stories By Marilyn Dykstra
5/05/26 Shen By Robin Anderson
5/12/26 Feed the Meter By Sarah Pascarella
Feed the Meter
By Sarah Pascarella
I trudged up Massachusetts Avenue, past the stately embassies, high heels wobbling against the slick sheen of snow. The forecast had called for a squall, but as evening fell, I left my unpaid internship and walked into a full-fledged storm, my light jacket and impractical shoes no match for the elements. I approached the bus stop faster than the standstill line of cars and turned to peer into the swirling wind. Not a bus in sight. There was, however, a cab, with no one in the backseat.
In the late nineties, the cabs in DC were zoned, flat rates, and I quickly calculated – I was just two zones away from my apartment, within my budget to get home. I waved to the driver, who nodded.
Inside, the cab was gloriously warm, vaguely scented of chemical pine, tobacco, mildewed carpet. I leaned back a spell, luxuriating against the heated pleather seat. Accumulated precipitation dripped from my hair and shoulders. I rubbed my bare hands together, droplets splattering the Plexiglas separating the car’s front and back. As I wiped them away, I startled to see a flashing red meter on the dash, the fare already near the total cash I carried.
What are the odds? I thought. After nearly four years in Washington, I’d never seen a metered cab. I’d later realize that the odds in a snowstorm were quite good, that these unauthorized cabs flooded in to profit off the stranded like myself. In the moment, though, I had to think fast. The traffic was stalled, but my fare was climbing. We had barely moved fifty feet.
I watched the numbers tick up, my limbs aching from initial thaw. I retrieved my wallet, counted every cent, then looked again at the meter. In minutes, I wouldn’t have enough.
Leave now, back into the cold, with a few bucks in case anything happens? I considered. Sit five more minutes to stay warm, get no closer to home, and spend my last penny?
Perhaps there was a third, more merciful. option. I tapped the partition.
“Hmm?” The driver didn’t turn.
“Sorry, sir – I thought this was a zoned cab. I don’t have enough cash. Any chance you’d take a flat rate for two zones?”
The windshield blurred and cleared, the wipers clicking overtime.
“No can do.” The reply was low. “Pay what you can and get out.”
The rebuke stung, sharp as the cold, even if somewhat expected. (I’ve never been able to charm strangers, nor brave enough to request special favors.) I handed over the full fare – covered, just barely – and stepped back onto Mass Ave.
Outside, the cold was ravenous, my limbs shaking as it bit. My toes and ankles, circulation nearly restored, throbbed in protest against the frigid concrete.
Down the hill, cars inched into the gale. No bus.
Race the cars to the top of the street. My pointy-toe shoes led the way and I kept my head low, watching my feet with curiosity, as though they were not my own. At the intersection, I returned to my body with force, the shaking violent and faster than before. I peered into the evening, trying to see through the filled wind. Behind me, the cab was no longer discernible. Ahead, a steeple.
Get to the church and wait it out.
Again, I watched my feet move along.
The church doors were locked. I blinked through frosted lashes, picturing the route ahead.
Get to the supermarket.
At the grocery about a mile further, I spent my last dollar on a deli coffee, scalding my tongue in eagerness for warmth. In the restroom, I stood under the hand dryer for multiple cycles, my fingers morphing from white to purple-gray to red-tinged peach.
Get to the apartment. On a good day it was ten to fifteen minutes from the store. In high heels through drifts, it was double the time.
At home, my roommates fussed over me, peeling off soaked layers, drawing a bath. When I lowered into the steaming water, sparks crackled across every nerve as my blood forced its way back to the extremities. My silly work outfit, possibly ruined, dripped from a towel hook. Below, a waterline stain formed along my shoes.
I had no more cash for the near future. But I had peanut butter in the cupboard. Milk in the fridge. A reliable step, frozen or steady, and an internal compass to take me where I needed to go. It would be enough.
@@@
Sarah Pascarella is a writer and editor based in Boston. She has a master’s in Writing, Literature, and Publishing from Emerson College and serves as a trustee for the Somerville Public Library.
Editor’s Comments: We emphasize with the narrator’s plight and understand the building tension. This is real and immediate and is something that readers of all ages can identify with. It has a nice flow to it. Good work!
@@@
Shen
By Robin Anderson
3am and it’s too cold to sleep, or too hot. Wrists cannot be exposed, feet have to be. I startle awake with the fear she will be kidnapped out of our 2nd story window. I dream lucidly of cars careening on their sides down the freeway. I mostly do not sleep. Shen has nowhere to root.
For any mother who has had the unshakable urge to check on her baby multiple times throughout the night, this is the rudderless shen.
I am a practitioner of Chinese medicine, and I just had a baby.
I therefore know that the health of one’s spirit, or shen, is so closely tied with one’s blood that it is impossible to speak of one without the other.
After my daughter was born, the first blood transfusion didn’t do much, so I had a second. But eight weeks later, I was still in a hospital-grade maxi pad with no discernible medical cause.
“Have you tried extra vitamin C?” the hospital midwife asked me over the phone. She was almost chipper. “I don’t really know how to help you. Maybe it’s time to try alternative medicine.”
Lady, I thought, I AM the alternative medicine.
If the blood is deficient, the spirit cannot rest.
The Ling Shu, or Spiritual Pivot that serves as a core text regarding the theory of acupuncture says, “When Blood is harmonized, the Mind has residence.” It is said that the mind is housed or “embraced” by the nurturing, nutritious fluid, particularly at night.
Putting aside my shen, I also need to produce breastmilk with this blood-deficient body.
It hasn’t been going well.
From my studies, I cannot unknow the blood-milk-shen connection, and I currently cannot keep blood in my body.
So the fact that I am awake is irrelevant, really, because I have the alarm set for 3:30am, when I will pick up my shipwrecked body and sit her on the cold edge of the bathtub. I will hook up plastic pieces to my breasts, the hospital-grade pump with incomprehensible tubing, knobs and funnels, and pray for at least two ounces.
Four brown vials of herbal tinctures await my decision downstairs, herbs from the Stop Bleeding category in the Chinese medical pharmacopeia. But they could also diminish my milk supply.
I want to bounce this decision off of someone, but herbs are not in anyone on my care team’s scope of practice. I’m an herbalist myself, but my blood-starved brain doesn’t work right now. I cannot strategize. I have been offered birth control and anti-depressants, but no real plan for the continuous loss of fluid, nutrients, and raw material for sustaining life. The focus remains on the volume of milk produced, but not the vessel from which it comes.
Tonight, I cannot decide, and I know I won’t once daylight comes either. I squeeze out almost four ounces in total, unhook, and lumber off to bed where my spirit hovers just a few feet above me.
@@@
Robin Anderson is a writer, mother, and Chinese medicine practitioner, with a focus on women’s health and perinatal care. Her creative spark comes from her love of literature, motherhood, and background in anthropology. Robin lives in Washington state with her partner and their six-year-old daughter.
Editor’s Comments: We loved the original subject and point of view in this piece. It’s well written, it hit home, and we wanted to share it with the world. Good job, Robin.
@@@
Interwoven Love Stories
By Marilyn J Dykstra
I’m lying half-naked on Sue’s waterbed. Ahhh! I hurt my right shoulder climbing up and down a boulder on a hike, and she offered to give me a back rub. My shoulder feels good from her strong kneading hands and soothing caresses. I roll over and look up at her. She leans over me. We kiss. I stay the night. We don’t sleep. In the morning, I have a hickey on my neck, which I try to cover up with a scarf. But it’s useless. Desire exposed.
My mother fiddles with her wedding ring when my parents visit us. My father stands speechless. Sue and I spend every night together for the next three years. I have no official beginning date, only an ending date when she and Dave get married. But I‘ll always remember the passion of that first night.
On Halloween, Sue hosts a party for our friends, and I’m wearing a mask. It feels like my own skin. It looks like me, too, made up to attract a man and sprinkled with Sue’s love potion. The guests leave. Sue and Dave are sleeping on the waterbed. Lewis and I lie on cushions on the floor in the back den. We cuddle together, and I sleep all night in his embrace. What bliss!
We shop for a small diamond ring and a wedding band with blue sapphires. Then a custom-built house on the west mesa with adobe-colored brick and a fireplace. We move in January. On March 17th, my father gives us our wedding vows in our living room, and my mother embraces Lewis as her son-in-law. Sue is my matron of honor, and Dave is a groomsman.
Thirty-six years later, Lewis and I cuddle together on our memory foam mattress in Northern California, and I’m still wearing the same mask of fear. It chafes my soul. I’ve worn the mask for thirty-six years, half my lifetime. Time to take it off! Besides, Lewis probably already knows. Peeling it off slowly hurts too much. We’re sitting at the kitchen table. I have to rip it off like a Band-Aid stuck tight.
“Lewis, I’m bisexual.”
“What?”
“Sue and I were more than friends.”
“Huh?”
“Lewis, we were lovers.”
“Oh.” Long pause. “Does that make any difference to our marriage?”
I hesitate, “No.”
We hug.
Our daughter unlocks the front door, and I feel the mask grow back.
How many times do I need to peel it off?
Thirty-six years of silence,
fear mixed with love and anger,
ready to erupt …
like ashes and lava from Mauna Loa,
flames from a Saturn V rocket,
steam and water from Old Faithful,
applause at Carnegie Hall,
the cork from a bottle of champagne.
@@@
Marilyn J. Dykstra is a late-coming-out lesbian who identified all her adult life as the bi in LGBTQ+. She lives with her family in the San Francisco Bay Area, where no one knew she was queer until 2023, when she came out to her family and friends as bi.
@@@
Editor’s Comments: The honesty grows beautifully and authentically in this piece. Although normally flash memoir is confined to a single scene, this story needed to be told in this way. We also loved the mixture of prose and poetry. Less is more, and the author knows that. Well done!
@@@
THE PHLEBOTOMIST
By Liz Stone
Without looking at my chart, the orange-haired phlebotomist calls my name, never a great sign. Walking down the hallway she stops, turns and looks me in the eyes. Voice just above a whisper, she asks, “So are ya feeling any better?”
“A little, I think.”
“Oh–gooooood. We’ll TAKE it!” Her eyes lock mine. Then she nods hard, indicating her investment in my response and in my recovery. She’s part of my team, the player I see the most. Our weekly meetings mark the parade of time and the reality of my health as told in blood. The results will dictate my future. And the course of my treatment.
Labelling the vials and lining them up neatly, she talks non-stop in her quiet, lyrical way. Happy to listen, her words are a reprieve from those in my head. I imagine I’m in an Irish pub, bar maid across the vinyl arm rest. Like the heart-broken drunk, it feels good for a kind, matronly woman to be in charge, gently tending to me. Looking over to the side wall I recognize the local bank calendar, huge bull elk bugling with golden aspen behind him. October.
“My grandson told me his favorite color is orange. Isn’t that strange? I don’t think I know anyone else who’s favorite color is orange.” No pause. “I wonder what that means? I think I’ll look it up.” Looking at her hair I think that grandson must really love his Montana grandma.
I’m ready to ask about her sick horse when she carries on, not finished yet. Just the two of us, our meetings are private and eleven months going, the comfort level is pretty high.
“I told my daughter they’re too protective of him. They don’t even let him play outside. It’s so sad. I told her it’ll give the boy anxiety. Okay, dear. Now, a poke.” Best I’ve ever had, I barely feel the needle.
“Where are they?”
“Missouri. I know it’s not Montana but it’s pretty safe.” Taking off one vial and screwing on another, she continues, “I mean, kids need to go outside.” Another vial. “That’s all we did growing up–no computers.”
She pats my arm and says, “Okay, all done.” The only provider who actually touches me, it is strangely powerful.
“For sure,” I reply as she lifts up the vinyl arm releasing me to myself. Seamlessly she turns to put the vials upright in their stand. Our task is done but I wait for her signal, not in a hurry to leave.
Still at the counter, she turns her head to face me, “Okay, dear. Take good care. And have a good weekend.”
“Thanks. You too. B-Bye.”
Walking to my car I tell myself to check in about her sick horse next Friday.
Next week I’ll read a sign on the door:“LAB CLOSED DUE TO LACK OF STAFFING. PROCEED TO SOUTH END LAB, BUILDING 5.” The cold drop in my stomach surprises me, stinging the way abandonment does. I consider driving but force myself to walk, hoping to shake off this sudden angst.
The main lab has a huge waiting room and a much longer wait. Getting nervous I’ll be late for work, I’m relieved when my name is finally called. Walking through the big opening and rounding the corner to a room with four lab chairs, the woman in front of me pauses and points to the hooks, apparently an invitation to hang up my coat. Next she points to an empty chair. All she’s missing is a cattle prod.
“Roll up a sleeve please,” she says with her back turned to me. I obey. As if I don’t know the routine by now.
My new phlebotomist, very overweight and scowling, makes no eye contact. She cleans then jabs my arm without a word, though I keep looking at her. Nothing lyrical emerges. Without the star player, I wonder if my team will win.
@@@
Liz Muhs Stone is a psychotherapist living in southwest Montana. Her writing has previously been published in The Family Digest, a professional publication; and Last Night, an annual publication of poetry by women in Montana. She recently received an Honorable Mention from WOW! 2026 Creative Nonfiction Essay Contest.
Editor’s Comments: The piece makes such a great point about the human qualities that matter in a medical professional. The narrator shows why relationships matter.
@@@
Berries and Bugs
By Katelyn Goodheart
I opened the door to a gust of hot air scented with dust and the sweet-sour promise of strawberries. Gravel crunched under my Converse. I turned to look back at my daughter, who had spent the previous two hours in anxious silence. She often joked that she was the golden retriever of her friend group: cheerful, friendly, and always excited for a car ride or a treat. I’d anticipated the usual flurry of stories when we got into the car, both of us eager to catch up after her visit to her dad’s house. Today, though, she’d been unusually distant.
“Are you coming?” I asked, sweat trickling down my neck in the Florida heat. I wrapped my hair into a messy ponytail with a hairband from the gear shift. My daughter sighed and unsnapped her seat belt.
“I guess.”
Desperate for a break from the endless stretch of I-75, I’d followed a series of bright paper signs to a farmers’ market. Pop-up tents framed the sidewalk. Kettle corn popped, punctuated by the ting of ball on bat from the neighboring baseball field. My daughter trailed after me, scuffing her feet. I browsed the goat milk soaps and the home-made crafts, then paused at a produce stall.
Sun-warm berries waited in recycled plastic baskets. Bright red juice spotted the already-stained tablecloth. A honeybee investigated a smashed blueberry on the sidewalk, then buzzed away. My daughter flinched: ever since one had stung her palm as a toddler, she’d been scared of bees.
“Want some?” I asked, pointing to the berries on the table. Concern warred with annoyance in my chest when she shrugged. She loved strawberries. I bought two baskets, then patronized a fresh-pressed juice stall, a coffee roaster, and a stand that sold homemade guacamole and chips.
Back at the car, I hopped up on the trunk and patted the spot beside me. My daughter joined me. I handed her a basket of berries. She tugged at the leaves, kicked her heels against the bumper, and peeled the label from the container of guacamole, but didn’t take a single bite. I sipped my iced coffee and waited, people-watching.
“Mom?” She said finally. “I need to talk to you about something.”
“Okay, of course.” I tried not to sound as anxious as I was. My mind had spun horror stories in her silence. Maybe the new stepmom was mean, or abusive. Maybe her younger stepsiblings needed too much attention, and she’d spent the visit lonely and bored. Maybe her dad had said something thoughtless. Or maybe she’d decided she wanted to stay with them for the next school year.
“Don’t be mad, but I told Dad first. I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know what you would think.” She picked at the skin around her thumbnail, staring down at the strawberries. Her shaggy hair, half newly bleached white, hung down around her face, hiding her expression.
“I’m not mad,” I promised. “I’m glad you two talked.”
Her thumb-picking sped up. Each nail was painted a different color, all chipped.
“I’d like to start using he/him pronouns.” The words rushed out. “I think I’m trans. Like, I want to be a boy, and I don’t want you to call me by my old name anymore.”
Dark eyes peeked up at me from beneath bicolored bangs.
“Is that okay?” My child’s voice trembled. I put an arm around her – his – shoulders.
“It’ll take some getting used to,” I answered, as honestly as I could. I had concerns, a thousand new ones in addition to the thousand every parent carries. They whirled through my mind, but I kept them to myself. “I’ll do my best. What do you want me to call you?”
He took a shuddering breath.
“Bug,” he announced. A hint of his usual smile emerged, marked with pride and relief. I smiled back, catching the reference to his favorite song, Boys Will Be Bugs by Cavetown, about the vulnerability of growing up and defining yourself against a scary world. I understood at once: if boys were bugs, maybe my Bug could be a boy.
I squeezed his shoulders and then let go.
“Are you ready to get back on the road, Bug? Still got a ways to go.”
He turned over the strawberry in his fingers, then ate it in a single bite, letting the leaves flutter to the gravel of the parking lot.
“These are good,” he said, sliding into the front seat. “I’m glad we stopped.”
@@@
Kate Goodheart is a passionate amateur writer who lives with her partner and son on a homestead outside of Sacramento. When not caring for her animals or crafting, she enjoys writing contests, specifically in short/flash/micro fiction. Her fantasy novel is progressing at nearly the speed of tectonic plates.
@@@
Editor’s Comments: The honesty, pace, and sensory details are all exquisite. This is an important story and it’s beautifully told. Because the author calls herself an amateur, I have to remind everyone reading this that an amateur does something for the love of it. That’s clear, and she’s also a skilled crafter of words. Well done!
@@@
Staying
By Judy Halper
So many times, I was on the verge of leaving this place.
It’s not just a place, of course, though its village-like atmosphere has an overgrown rural charm. It’s an entire community. It’s the people I drink coffee with every day, the people I stop to chat with in the little store, the people who cross the road when they see me coming. It’s dogs and cats, jackals and hedgehogs, blackbirds’ chorus in the morning and bats’ swoop with nearly silent wings at night.
In the beginning, I would ask myself in the mornings, as I rose early to clean the dining room or weed the cotton: “What am I doing here? Why am I doing this manual labor, when I could be continuing my studies? Why struggle in a foreign language when I could surround myself with English speakers? Is this going to be my life?” But I learned to speak the language, dress like everyone; identifiable only by my accent.
Later, I promised myself I would leave when a certain politician became prime minister. But I never left. I watched my adopted country shift to the right, but took comfort from that politician’s shift to the center. My children already spoke that language; always spoke it to the bus driver who picked them up every morning from the little bus stop at the end of the parking lot. I’d progressed from cleaning to the challenges of fixing milking machines and steam equipment, or, in other years, sating my desire to feed people by cooking for dozens of vegetarians every day. We’d progressed from small, temporary apartments to a small family home; I planted a garden and hung art on the walls.
I watched our hopes for peace dashed below sea level with one cruel assassination, and yet, I stayed, refusing to read the history still visible below the green surface.
The last time I swore I’d leave, my hands were permanently cramped from milkings, my feet tender from wearing rubber boots on the hard milking-room floor. I requested, from my quasi-socialist community, the chance to return to my studies, and the assembly of my peers said no. I was too valuable in the milking parlor. I was too worn to continue.
I meant to leave, but my community changed with me. The next year; along with socialism everywhere, the system morphed into something looser and freer, with car and home ownership to boot. So I stayed.
I commuted to a nearby city to work, using my brain and a keyboard, rather than my arms and hands. The city was a nice one, with a world-class research center, buses, shops and coffeeshops, but I rarely, in all the years I worked there, was tempted to exchange this place for that. The trees lining the kilometer of road leading up to our entrance welcomed me every evening with their eucalyptus scent and I accepted their welcome gratefully.
My children grew up and left for colder pastures. They didn’t only take up new opportunities. They rejected my dreams, dreamt their own instead. And I stayed.
And now, in my home, on my kibbutz, my country has morphed once again around me, even as my garden continues to flourish in quiet. If I was once a builder of dreams – the kind that if you will it, etc, — I am now branded in red paint — one enemy among many. Here, I am a symbol of an older-new country that has vanished under the weight of an extreme century. I’m a leftist in the land of the crazy right, a believer in justice in the land of “take no prisoners.”
There, I am a cutout figure, an armed occupier (who truly hates guns), a stereotype with no white outlines or edges for coloring in different shades.
And still, I will not leave. I will refuse to become what any of you would make of me. I’m stubborn that way.
I live in a place that was purchased from previous owners and passed to those who would own it with the sweat of their brow. (Fact, despite what you might choose to believe). I live in a place of chosen families and small-town rivalries, and many shades of different colors. It is my home.
@@@
Judy Halper, born in Minnesota, lives in a kibbutz in the center of Israel. A mother and wife, she worked as a dairywoman, plumber and veggie cook, and later as a PIO/science writer. Today she is a resource developer for peace/Arab women’s organizations and a blogger.
Editor’s Comments: This has elements of self-knowledge and conviction that make it a strong flash memoir piece. We liked the flow, development, and the tone this created. Nice work!
From Scratch
By Caitlyn Tanner
Mothers-in-law are like medication side effects – you assume they won’t be a problem until they make their surprise appearance.
Mine was standing in my kitchen, critiquing my every move. She had brought everything but the kitchen sink to our house for a weekend stay.
Kathy was an excellent from-scratch chef.
I was raised on frozen TV dinners and canned beans.
“I always use fresh grated cheese when I make cheese dip”, she said through pursed lips as I chucked a block of Velveeta into the crockpot.
I didn’t know what to say – so I said nothing.
………………………………………………………………..
At the baby shower for our first child, Kathy handed me a recipe to make my own baby wipes.
“These are so much cheaper to make than buying wipes!”, she boasted. “I used this recipe for years while I stayed home with my kids.”.
At best, I might have ten weeks off work after the baby came. I barely had enough time to take care of myself during pregnancy – much less make my own baby wipes like Suzy Homemaker. I was terrified of what life would look like with a newborn in a household run by two full-time career parents.
I didn’t know how to tell her, so I just smiled and nodded.
…………………………………………………………………..
Ten days after our son was born, Kathy came to visit.
I had undergone an emergency cesarean section and was recovering slowly—both physically and emotionally. Everything hurt. I was exhausted, and my breasts weren’t producing enough milk. The pediatrician prescribed powdered formula because our baby wasn’t getting enough nutrients and was losing weight.
“I breastfed all three of my children for the first year,” Kathy proudly announced.
“Kathy cooked and hosted Christmas dinner for an entire ship of Naval officers the day after she had Ethan,” added my father-in-law. “She gave birth to all three of our children naturally”.
Kathy rocked the baby as he slept. I silently prayed she would keep him asleep long enough for me to take a nap.
I already felt like a failure as a mother. No natural, unmedicated birth. No exclusive breast milk. No idea how I would ever manage going back to work. A lump rose in my throat. I wanted to break down and cry, but I swallowed hard and forced it back.
…………………………………………………………………………..
“If you wash these with mild soap and water, you can use them at least ten times,” Kathy sang as I watched her clean an inside-out Ziploc sandwich bag in the sink with Dawn and a soft sponge.
I was dying inside, wondering what would possess someone to wash and reuse disposables this way.
“It saves money and is better for the environment,” she added.
She had made cinnamon rolls from scratch using whole-grain flour. The sight and smell made my mouth water as I watched them bake through the oven glass.
“These are the best cinnamon rolls I’ve ever had, Kathy,” I said, stuffing one into my mouth.
“I’ll share the recipe!” she exclaimed.
“Oh, I don’t think I could make these as well as you.”
Kathy just smiled.
………………………………………………………………………………
“You can eat whatever you can tolerate when you get home,” the doctor told Kathy. “But start with liquids and soft foods. Take it slowly.”
Kathy was being discharged from the hospital after a month of tube feeding. It was March, and the doctors estimated she would die before the end of the year. She had late-stage pancreatic cancer. Our family was distraught.
“I’ll make you anything you want, Kathy,” I said.
It was the only thing I could think of to say, and it felt stupid—offering to make food for a gourmet chef. Besides, what help could I possibly offer someone who was about to die?
“OK,” she said weakly.
………………………………………………………………………………………
“Cheesecake,” she said to me one day. “Store-bought cheesecake is the worst. You have to make it from scratch, with fresh lemon—and don’t let it crack.”
I scoured the internet, found a recipe, bought the ingredients, and did my best to follow everything she had taught me.
There is no way I’ll pull this off, I thought.
That night, I served her a slice. She pressed her fork into it. I held my breath as she lifted the first bite to her lips.
Her eyes closed gently, the corners of her mouth curling into a smile.
“It’s perfect,” she said, opening her eyes and meeting mine across the table.
We held each other’s gaze for a long moment. I had finally earned her approval.
@@@
Caitlyn Tanner is an Entrepreneur, Fitness Enthusiast, World-Traveler and semi-retired Pharmacist. She finds joy in expressing herself through writing, crafting, painting and music. She lives in San Carlos, Sonora, Mexico with her husband and two sons.
@@@
Editor’s Comments: We liked this because the characters, attitudes, and problem solving were all shown so clearly. Each mini-memoirs contributed effectively to the whole, proving that there’s more than one way to do this. Well done.
