The taxi stopped in front of my mother’s Montréal apartment building and the driver pulled my luggage from his trunk. Harsh wind and small snowflakes hit my face and made my eyes water. The front of my coat flapped open, but my feet wouldn’t move. Placing my purse on the salted sidewalk, I searched for my lipstick in the pocket of my jeans, stalling. My mother had lived in this low-income housing project for over twenty years, and this was my second visit.

The Antigonish Review Winter 2019, Volume No.196 Short Fiction

"She’s not like other women who drown their sorrow in a box of wine. No. Sage goes straight for the protein and lots of it."

When Guy calls to say he’s coming over because he’s got something he needs to say, Sage is convinced she’s about to get dumped. He sounds nervous, and a bit too formal, but at least this time she can give herself credit for falling for a guy with a conscience. Most just fuck off. ​

Grain Magazine Vol. 48-4 Summer 2021

The Monday evening after James Cross, the British Trade Commissioner was taken from his residence at gunpoint by the Front de libération du Québec, or FLQ for short, my father arrived home from work later than usual because of police roadblocks. He was agitated when he came in. The breakfast dishes were still in the sink and the beds weren’t made. My mother said she’d been watching the news coverage of the abduction all afternoon and lost track of time, but that was a lie. When I ran up the stairs after school her cheeks were flushed from the cold wind, and she was hanging up her coat. ​

Grain Summer 2017 Volume 44.4

It was spring break and the weather so hot and sunny that the cherry trees were in full bloom. Their crowns looked like pink cotton candy. My mother and I were mopping the green winter slime off our deck that overlooked the bay. She worked at one end, I stayed at the other. Scattered between us were the hoses and attachments to the pressure washer we couldn’t start.

The New Quarterly Spring 2020 issue 154 Short Fiction

Levi counts his steps to the threshold of the kitchen—exactly sixteen. He loves when his counting ends on an even number and he hates foods that can’t be counted like blueberry jam and peanut butter. His mother knows this and is usually very careful about what she cooks, but this morning, as he stands in the doorway of the kitchen looking in, the flesh of her upper arm jiggles as she beats the hell out of a bowl of raw eggs. “I like my eggs hard boiled. What are you doing?” ​