Author name: Jenny Ng

“Sarah, listen to me very carefully,” my husband’s voice crackled over the phone, so low it was almost a whisper. “You need to leave work. Now. There are people here—state officials. They’re sitting in our living room, and they won’t leave until they speak to you.” My blood ran cold. “Mark, what is going on? […]

The last thing I said to my son was that he was soft. I told him he needed to “man up.” I didn’t realize I was screaming at a drowning boy until the water had already closed over his head. My son, Caleb, was twenty-five. If you looked at him through my eyes—the eyes of

I wore a $3,000 custom suit to my mother’s funeral. I pulled up to the old family home in a rented luxury SUV, wearing designer sunglasses to hide eyes that hadn’t shed a single tear yet. I felt like the hero. The savior. The “Success Story.” I’ve been living in Chicago for the last 15

The email from the Vice Principal hit my inbox at 2:00 PM. The subject line was in bold, red letters: URGENT: Disciplinary Action Regarding Maya. My stomach turned. Maya is eleven. She’s in sixth grade. She still sleeps with a stuffed elephant and worries if the neighborhood stray cat is cold. She isn’t a troublemaker.

My husband stood in our kitchen, gripping his coffee mug so hard his knuckles turned white. He didn’t look at me; he looked through me. “Sarah, look. I value my mental health too much for this,” he said, his voice cold and flat. “You have until Sunday. Either you find a facility for the old

I let my father die with his suitcase packed under his bed, waiting for a ride home I knew was never coming. My name is David, and I am 56 years old. Two months ago, we buried my father. At the service, people kept coming up to me, patting my shoulder, offering the usual comforts.

My name is Sarah, I am 66 years old, and I am currently hiding in the back row of a dim movie theater on a Tuesday afternoon. I’m watching a superhero movie I don’t understand, eating a small bag of popcorn that I shouldn’t be eating because of my cholesterol. My phone is buzzing in

I watched my sister’s perfect life burn to the ground last Tuesday at 3:00 AM, and here is the ugly truth I can barely admit to myself: It felt like a victory. My name is Sarah. I’m 36 years old. And for three decades, I have been known simply as “Jessica’s sister.” You probably know

I am a criminal. I haven’t broken any laws, I haven’t held up a bank, and I certainly don’t have a record. But make no mistake: I am a thief. I have robbed the only two people in this world who would gladly lay down their lives for mine. My father is a man who

I lay on my frozen driveway for forty-two minutes before I realized the truth: I could die here, and the only thing that would notice would be the automatic porch light flicking off. At 78, you don’t just “fall.” You shatter. One minute I was reaching for the mail—hoping for a real letter, not just