Author name: Jenny Ng

The officer reached for his radio to call Social Services when he saw the empty leash dragging on the pavement behind me. “Sir,” the young deputy said, stepping out of his cruiser. He kept one hand near his belt, his eyes darting between my face and the empty red nylon strap. “Do you know where […]

My daughter didn’t see the predator at the fence. She was too busy counting the likes on the photo that led him right to us. He was standing in the shadows of the bleachers, just past the concession stand. Gray hoodie. Hands jammed in his pockets. He wasn’t watching the touchdowns. He wasn’t watching the

I don’t check homework first. I check their fingertips. Blue means the heat is off. Purple means they walked. “Mrs. Reed, are we staying inside for recess?” Jayden didn’t look at me when he asked. He was staring at his sneakers, vibrating. Not shivering—vibrating. He was wearing a windbreaker. The kind you buy at a

I flew 1,000 miles to see my son. He checked his watch and said, “You’re 13 minutes early. Wait outside.” The cold wind cut right through my coat, but it was the look in Mark’s eyes that froze me to the bone. I stood on the porch of his sprawling colonial house in the suburbs

The 911 operator asked if I was alone. I lied and said “Yes,” because the honest answer hurt worse than my shattered hip. I didn’t want to admit that I have three successful children, seven grandchildren, and a contact list full of people who “love” me—but not a single one who would notice if I

I have a million dollars in the bank and a house full of family, yet last Sunday, I realized I am the poorest man in America. The only sound in my dining room was the tap-tap-tap of glass screens and the buzzing of vibrations against the mahogany table. I sat at the head. My wife’s

My mother pawned her wedding ring to pay for my college entrance exams. When I revealed her secret from the podium, the entire gymnasium went silent. I stood there, gripping the sides of the podium until my knuckles turned white. The principal was staring at me, waiting for the speech I’d submitted two weeks ago—some

They pointed at my grease-stained hands and told their son I was a failure. Then I paid for their groceries. I didn’t even make it out of the coffee aisle before I heard them. I was standing on the other side of the shelves, staring at the dark roasts, trying to keep my eyes open.

I spent three years wishing I could build a ten-foot spite fence between me and the “woke” hipster next door. Last night, in the middle of a blizzard, I trespassed on his property instead. My name is Art. I’m 74, a retired machinist, and a widower. My world is small: my paid-off house, my diagonal-striped