The New Yorker: The Writer's Voice - New Fiction from The New Yorker Folgen

The next day, Lakshman telephoned India. He gripped the phone and spoke in a soft, tight voice. “Mommy says she is going to stay in bed and drink.” Even as he was speaking, he knew that his father would find some way to make light of what was happening. His father said, “What else does she do anyway?” Learn about your ad choices: dovetail.prx.org/ad-choices

He stood there for another few minutes before a boy and a girl ambled toward him, the boy not immediately recognizable as his son. It was Rowan, obvious now as the boy got closer, and Richard pretended he’d known all along. Wasn’t that what parents were supposed to do? Be able to spot their children in a crowd, in an instant, the most primal of recognitions? Learn about your ad choices: dovetail.prx.org/ad-choices

Kate and I looked at each other and shrugged. Hector was lonely and missing his children. It made sense. But then Kate noticed something, and that was when the holiday went irrecoverably wrong.  Learn about your ad choices: dovetail.prx.org/ad-choices