Of all my grandmother’s 17 grandchildren, I was her favorite. I knew that because she never missed an opportunity to tell me so. I fervently believed this until many years after her death, when I mentioned it to a cousin.
“No, you weren’t. I was. She told me I was all the time.”
An informal poll of the other cousins in the room (it was a holiday gathering) brought the identical answer from each of them. This was the true genius of my unlettered, immigrant grandmother: She made sure that each of us knew she loved us the best.
But my mother’s answer to the question “Who do you love better, me or Emily?” brought the same frustrating reply every time I asked: “I love you each in your own way.” Sometimes she modified “own” with “special,” and she told my sister the same thing.
I’m afraid I forgot how frustrating this was to a child, when, for lack of something less equivocal, I gave the same answer to my own kids.
My sin was compounded one day when my daughter, my second child, was sorting through family photos.
“How come you have so many pictures of Jonathan and hardly any of me?”
“Hardly any” was a gross exaggeration as far as I was concerned, but she had a point.: Numerous shots of my first baby asleep; asleep holding his teddy bear; asleep with his diapered butt in the air; eating, feeding himself with his mouth smeared with baby cereal; with mashed bananas; with squished peas. So many shots of my second baby included her older brother.
I am reminded of this because my second book baby is about to be launched into the world. For my first, a novel, So Happy Together (She Writes Press, 2021) I pulled out all the stops; so many literary contests (with entry fees)? Sign me up. Facebook ads? Amazon ads? Paid ads in various literary publications? Ah, yes, I was easily parted from my money. Looking back, I grasped at every bright shiny offer that promised to make my book stand out from the other 2-3 million books published each year. Dubious whether any of these expensive efforts sold books, and I’m definitely not a household name.
And now, five years later, my second book baby—a memoir, An Old Man’s Darling, about my age-gap first marriage– will be out in the world. I don’t intend to chase after the elusive bestseller moniker with this one. Just celebratory launches in local bookstores, maybe one or two targeted contest entries, some library author talks, few—if any–paid ads, a little social media, and, hopefully, word of mouth. It doesn’t mean I love this book any less. In fact, if asked—and I’m sure I will be—I’d give the same answer I gave to my children and my mother gave to me: “I love them each in their own special way.”
I love my novel because it’s my first (and possibly last) foray into fiction. Because it represents a surprising new career change after retirement. Because my characters are composites of people I knew back in the day and whom I remember fondly, and because writing it has introduced me to a whole new community of fellow (actually, mostly sister) writers, quite a few of whom are now friends. And because I’m damn proud that I wrote a book in my 70s.
But, I’m so glad I did.
Available May 12, 2026
I love my memoir because this is the book I said I would never write but somehow came up with a 300-page manuscript anyway. I love it because it holds dear my youthful heart and is a tribute to a man I once adored. I love it because it is a gift to my children, the story of the unlikeliest of relationships that forms their back story, that may spark new memories of their father. And because I am equally proud that I produced this book, a year from the start of my ninth decade (which actually starts at 80, in case you’re doing the math).
And as for my kids–who are both now middle-aged– they think they’ve finally discovered the identity of my favorite child, and never cease to remind me:
