Caitlin Doyle

Because you’re gone, I take a book to bed: The Flame of Passion. Scabbard at his thigh, Lord Henry gets the girl. You’d only buy top Booklist picks. “The romance genre’s dead,” you’d say when promises of I-thee-wed lured me to bargain bins. I learned to lie about my day, hoard Harlequins on the sly while you were off at work, your office spread with red-inked proofs. But now it makes me yawn to read beyond the lovers’ wedding night. I close The Flame, not even halfway through. His sword grows dull while she goes on and on about how lovers must stay true. I’d write another ending, if I could, for you.

"A cradle thief," my mother called the man we'd see in shops, cafes, parks, even church, with "that poor girl" beside him. Hand in hand, they'd walk as if they didn't feel the scorch of people's stares. The day we saw him press his lips to hers, my mother blocked my eyes as if his mouth (I longed for my first kiss) against her mouth was smothering her cries. All week, I ran a fever that wouldn't break. "A cradle thief"—a voice I only half knew as my own surprised me in the dark, my sick-bed wet with shivers. "A cradle thief," I said again, as if the words could will my window broken, footprint on the sill.