Autobiographical Stories Novels & Stories

she says. She says it quietly, almost thoughtfully, as if she's still turning it over in her mind. The line was the first thing I wrote when I started the memoir—the sentence that arrived fully formed, that told me what this document was going to be about. Not the operation. Not the investigation. The architecture of self-deception. The way we tell ourselves stories that become true enough to act on. "Then it becomes something else," she says. "The second paragraph. It becomes something about your mother." She pauses. "It becomes—" She stops. She looks at her hands. "It's very honest."

And from the inside: a story about what it meant to be loved past the point where love was supposed to stop, and what you did with the life that love gave you back. She began to type. Not carefully. Not with the composed attention she brought to documents that were going somewhere specific. She typed the way she had written in the journals before Eric stole them — for herself, into the space where the true version lived, the version that didn't require management or framing or the careful selection of what to show. She typed: *I died once. And everything that happened after is a story worth telling.* She looked at the sentence. She typed the next one. And the one after.

That was my house. On this Tuesday night it was all going to be different from what they used to hear from their famous Rufous the Nightingale stories and not the usual fairy tales, or lazy tortoise stories neither was it going to be Harvey but a story i had decided to tell them ... my story... pardon me OUR STORY i meant. I cannot finish this story, the story of my life without mentioning to them each in the scene where they were birthed and whom their fathers were... The story i am about to tell is not a story but a History , my History , our heritage, history is the highest form of story ....the highest story of my home.

My ride was already waiting outside. ***** Sitting in my room engrossed in the book I am reading. After the visit to Sarah's house, I got home and no one was home as usual. My parents are very busy people. My dad owned various oil companies in Different countries and of course had to travel from time to time. My mum is a businesswoman. She travelled a lot too. Hopefully, she'd be around tomorrow. Deciding that the book was starting to bore me. I opened the I*******m app and started scrolling through the posts.

A life spent looking backwards misses all the beauty that lies in front of it. Your parents aren’t perfect. You might have realize this. But you’re pretty darn smart. So, like I said before, we have to forgive ourselves or the coulda, woulda, shoulda, fear and anxiety will creep into a crack of our weaknesses, and overcome us. Please know we’re not perfect, and we will never claim to be. Our personal journeys have stories to tell. THAT’S for sure. When it comes time for stories, though, talk to me first… because chances are your father’s are going to be inappropriate. HA!