By the time I pick up my daughter from school, I’m tired. It’s not even 4 o’clock but the sky looks dark. I don’t feel my usual self, but I’m not hungry, exactly. The world just seems a bleak and miserable place. Everything is gray, and the cold is seeping into my bones. “Your lips are blue,” my daughter informs me.

Juice Fasting: Enlightenment in a Bottle or Worst Idea I Ever Pitched? - Short Order

The third year I decided my father wasn’t really dead. He began to visit me in my dreams almost every night, dreams so vivid I woke up panting, heart racing. I heard him whispering to me, looked for him around corners.

Four Years Without My Dad: Tears, Ghosts, Jellybeans, and a Ginger Cookie Recipe - MsBehaved

He seemed harmless enough, all blond curls and hazy, bloodshot eyes. He had an English accent. I’ve always been a sucker for an accent.

It Happened To Me: I Let My Rapist Come Back the Next Day - xoJane

It occurred to me for the first time that my father might be jealous of me. After all, writing was his territory. I had been so eager to share my triumph with him, but his face made my mistake plain.

Missed Calls - Medium