Ashley Winstead

When I was younger, I would’ve given anything to have a conversation with him, have him take interest in me. But by now, through all our ups and downs, it just felt wrong, like an imposter living inside my dad’s skin.

Of course. Father-daughter time, that mysterious thing.

keeping my gaze trained on my feet, like I was eight years old again and embarrassed to exist.

Your body has a knowing. Like an antenna, attuned to tremors in the air, or a dowsing rod, tracing things so deeply buried you have no language for them yet.

The words cleaved me in half. Mrs. Rush, my favorite teacher—the one I felt surely saw me, recognized I was special—couldn’t remember I existed.

The moment I pulled it out, my hands began to tremble

You are formally invited