Lillith’s earliest memory is of her nail poking at her father’s love handle. As if her finger was able to inject happiness, and heal the month-to-month worries that emerged as dollar signs in his eyes, just around his pupils.

On her thirtieth birthday, Lillith’s parents pulled up to her one-hundred-and-forty-four-square-foot tiny home. As Lillith washed the sand off her feet, her mother whispered to her father, “When’s she gonna grow up?”

From Guest Contributor Susan Shiney

Susan is a writer, painter, and teacher originally from Southern California. She is now living in Lille, France.

I swirl around the last dregs of my falsely sweetened coffee. Waiting for something that will cause my pupils to expand, or contract. Something to make me short of breath, to pant. I wait for something to make my palms sweat and tap my feet nervously.

He always made the coffee.

From Guest Contributor Tess Pfeifle