Voices Behind the Plaster: How My Son’s Small Black Recorder Collapsed My Fiancée’s Cruel Lie
I reckon a man can survive just about any kind of grief as long as he believes the...
Author: Jerry B. Case
What Marv Left Behind in the Spare Tire of His Oldsmobile
Marv lived two doors down from me for going on twenty years. He was a widower, a retired...
How My Stepmother’s Public Slap at My Father’s Funeral Collapsed Her Forty Million Dollar Empire
The rain was coming down in sheets over Michigan Avenue, turning the limestone steps of the cathedral slick...
Table Twenty Seven: How My Triplets Destroyed My Ex-Husband’s High Society Wedding
The afternoon sun hit the smooth waters of Lake Geneva with that particular, blinding glare that always made...
The Man by the Bed: How My Supposedly Dead Uncle and an Emergency Room Slip Collapsed My Family’s Cruel Lies
The wind outside the kitchen window had that sharp, iron-scented bite to it that usually meant frost was...
The Sound of Their Applause: How My Father’s Public Shoving Match Collapsed His Grand Social Illusion
The marble tiles of the Belmont Manor atrium were already slick with tracked-in autumn moisture by the time...
The Gifts We Do Not Need: Why I Cut Off My Parents After Christmas Eve
The green digital numbers on the bedside clock read 2:14 in the morning, which was about three hours...
What She Left Behind: Why My Estranged Mother’s Knock Collapsed Twenty-One Years of Silence
The rain down in our corner of south Louisiana didn’t fall so much as it settled, hanging in...
The Silence at Eighty-Four: How My Fear and a Son’s Hidden Prescription Cost Me My License
The green digital numbers on my dashboard clock read 4:52 in the morning when I finally killed the...
What the Line Held: How Thirty Years of Plant Labor Collapsed Into an Envelope That Proved Corporate Never Owned My Soul
The card was glossy cardboard with a stamped facsimile signature from the regional vice president who had never...
