Photo by Michael Tuszynski on Unsplash
by Lisa K. Buchanan
Work brought me, at twenty-three, to birthfather territory, shortly after we first met. Over bagels and apartment listings, his wife urged me not to live in The City—crime, grime, incessant traffic—since the suburbs, where most of my newest family members lived, were safe and comfortable. But why did this seemingly innocuous suburban-versus-urban conversation turn testy? Because my birthfather’s wife must have foreseen the future I could not: that in the densely populated city of seven miles by seven miles, the urban mistress and I would live not far apart; that like me, the urban mistress loved street fairs and jazz clubs and indie bookstores; that the urban mistress would arrange tickets for three to literary lectures and theater performances; that the urban mistress was warm and witty and a few years younger. And in that brief discussion over breakfast, my birthfather’s wife must have foreseen, as well, that I would have to choose because, unlike my birthfather, I could not see Wife/Mistress/Wife/Mistress/Wife/Mistress, and in the presence of one, maintain a scrupulous silence about the other. Either choice would cleave, though fifteen years after my move to the city, when my birthfather broke with his urban mistress, he broke with me, too.
Writings by Lisa K. Buchanan have appeared in Bending Genres, The Citron Review, and elsewhere. Recent honors: Notable, Best American Essays 2023; First Place, Short Fiction Prize, CRAFT, 2022. Current favorite books: The Death of the Heart, Elizabeth Bowen.
