Hereditarily Broken: Surviving Dysfunctional Families

When I was six years old, I used to lay awake at night and hope. I closed my eyes, adamant in keeping the tears from falling, and said the following words like they were a magic spell: “I wish I had a family that loved me.” Disappointment never failed to wash over me come morning….

The Italian Job

“Mama, Italyano ba si Papa?” (Mom, is dad Italian?) my six year-old self shouted to my mom who was in the kitchen, which was actually only about a meter away from the supposed living room where I was doing my homework. She emerged teary-eyed from laughing uncontrollably, a ladle in one hand and a wok…