Tiny Love Stories: ‘I Thought I Was Straight'

New York Times

16-07-2025

Our Father, the Maestro
Our father wore clothes until they practically limped off his body. He wasn't one for new, fancy things. But in retirement, he treated himself — buying a state-of-the-art stereo system with custom speakers nearly as tall as him. From his recliner, he played maestro, conducting Chopin, Puccini, all his favorites at concert-hall volume. I like to think he's still orchestrating somewhere. On what should've been his 80th birthday, I received, perhaps, some proof: My kitchen radio, always programmed to NPR, inexplicably tiptoed up the dial. As Beethoven's Piano Concerto No. 4 greeted me that morning, I thought, 'Hi, Dad.' — Anne Marshall-Chalmers
'Held and Free'
I thought I was straight. I grew up in rural Alabama, attended a small university, met a very kind man and got married young — too young. But then, at age 30, Madison came along. I noticed her at work. In the E.R.'s chaotic, fluorescently lit environment, she felt like a peaceful fall breeze. One day, she stopped me in the hall and asked me what I was passionate about. I started writing poetry. I came out and my marriage ended. Big story made tiny: Madison, now my girlfriend, makes me feel held and free, makes me feel seen, finally. — Brittany Wyville
Craigslist Kismet
Looking for a cheap New York City rental at 23, I clicked on a Craigslist ad and moved in with a woman named Tsedale. Forty years my senior and a force of nature, she taught me to season boldly, live unapologetically and love without inhibition. Seven years ago, at the same hour my daughter, Sia, was born, Tsedale passed away. One life arrived as another left, a cosmic crossing. Tsedale wasn't just a roommate; she was the mother figure I needed — tough, wise, unflappable. I try to channel her fierce love and radical openness as I raise my daughter. — Thrupthi Reddy
A Night of Light
'I'm in the mood for highlights,' I told my mother one night. Though it was 10:30 p.m., she said, 'Get your shoes,' and drove us to Walgreens for a box of Frost & Tip. Back home, she gently pulled strands of my hair through a perforated plastic cap, then brushed on the acrid bleach solution. It was well past midnight when we finally finished, the two of us beaming in the mirror. When I see photos of 20-year-old me with my way-too-blond streaks, what's highlighted is a rare moment of spontaneity. My mother's only agenda: my happiness. — Abby Alten Schwartz
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