Miryam Howard-Meier, finalist #4


Among the more nuanced purposes of our contest The Drinking Fountain is for us as readers to be aware that we have the power to heal our nation.  But a prerequisite to that healing is the sad awareness, no matter how unintentional, that the expression our most cherished beliefs may actually have contributed to the damage we wish to repair.  Sometimes our empathy muscle must be exercised on a personal level before it can be abstracted and applied to our world view.  I choose to believe that we have more in common with each other than our pain, but sometimes pain is the currency of humanity. This finalist entry by Miryam speaks of a pain that every parent imagines at one time, though perhaps with different details.  And it speaks of the consequence of being wrong.  Here is



 by Miryam Howard-Meier

The last time I saw Abby, she was standing at a bus stop. I was stalled at an intersection when our eyes met. She glanced away,  pretending not to see me, but I felt our souls touch, as only a mother and daughter could know. Memories of how we had endlessly argued after telling me she was pregnant flooded my thoughts, as I drove away. She was just barely fifteen when she stormed out of the house that night, with a backpack flung over one shoulder; her shiny black hair, long and straight, racing behind her as if trying to catch up with the inner passion that drove her. Our words had been harsh, mixed with tears and ultimatums, now echoing regretted memories. She announced that she was going to terminate her pregnancy. I said I wouldn’t allow her to do such a thing —- and then she ran. That was almost a year ago.

I hear a knock at my door and find a sheriff standing soberly on my porch. He asks me if I am Abby Goldberg’s mother and follows me inside as my gut instinctively lurches into my throat. He  proceeds to inform me that my daughter had hung herself and was found dead that morning. He asks if there is someone he can call and offers his deepest condolences. I can not form words to reply. A social worker appears and extends a small pink striped bundle towards me.

“This is your granddaughter, Lily,” she says softly.

As I reach out to embrace this precious little life, our eyes meet, and I realize Abby had not aborted.

Oh, my sweet and beautiful Abby.

I was wrong….so very, very wrong.

7 thoughts on “Miryam Howard-Meier, finalist #4

  1. Sarah Crysl Akhtar says:

    There’s something deeply troubling to me in what this story expresses, and I felt the writing was a little less spontaneous and therefore a little less compelling than other of your work. I think you have more natural talent than you may recognize, and when you write in your own voice it’s one worth hearing.

  2. Jon Tobias says:

    A lot can be taken away from this piece. The range of emotions at the end is overwhelming. New life, suicide, countless missed opportunities to save relationships and possibly even a life. Such a sad story. Thank you for sharing.

  3. Laura says:

    You tackled a very sad topic with grace and humility. And a contentious issue in America today, so it fits a political theme as well.

  4. Katy says:

    This is a beautifully sad story. It truly tells the tale that every parent fears, and I think that you have done a wonderful job with putting the reader right there in the scene. I was able to see so deeply into the character’s emotion that I felt like I was really experiencing it for myself. It was touching. This is one of the keepers.

  5. grant laurence says:

    I thought that this is a well written piece. Made me want to reach out and help rewind this sad story.

    Thank you

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.