Everyone called her Honey.
They'd been calling her that since she was eight months old in a stroller in a park, when a stranger in a yellow blouse leaned down and said she was just a honey of a child. Her father picked it up that evening at the dinner table. Her siblings followed. And the name stuck in the way that certain things stick-not because they are the truest thing about a person, but because they are the easiest thing, the warmest thing, the name that required no one to look any closer.
Her real name was Veronica. Veronica Essen.
She was twelve years old when her father walked to the corner store for cigarettes and never came home. She was sixteen when she did the math in a school notebook-the insurance money, the mortgage, her mother's cleaning wages, her brother's trade-school stipend-and understood that the numbers didn't work. She was seventeen when she pressed her last dress for someone else's graduation ceremony and watched her classmates walk across a stage she would never cross.
She gave the next six years to her family without being asked. She gave them without keeping score, and without letting anyone see the cost, because she was the person who held things together and she understood-in the bone-deep way of people who learn it young-that the person who holds things together cannot appear to be someone who might let go.
She married Bob at thirty-one. She raised three children. She became the matriarch of an extended family that would not have survived without her, and she did it so completely, so quietly, and so well that the doing became invisible. Not to the people who loved her. They knew she was there. But the weight of it was invisible. The effort was invisible. The cost was invisible.
She died at eighty-one, in April, in the house she had kept for fifty years, with the tulips she'd planted coming up in the garden.
When her husband's gravestone arrived, it listed his civic organizations, his club memberships, the boards he had served on. At the very bottom, in smaller letters than all the rest: Together forever with Honey.
Not her name. Not her dates. Not a single word about who she had been and what she had done and what it had cost her to do it.
Just the nickname. The one a stranger gave her before any of the rest of it happened.
HONEY is a quiet, devastating story about the invisible labor of women-about what it means to hold a family together for a lifetime, and about how the people who give the most are often remembered the least. It is a story for anyone who has ever shown up, and kept showing up, without being asked to, and without anyone noticing the weight of the showing up.
For readers of Dolly Alderton, Lisa Wingate, and Ann Napolitano.
Farrell, P. A.: -
P. A. Farrell is a psychologist and published author with McGraw-Hill, Springer Publishing, Cafe Lit, Ravens Perch, Humans of the World, Active Muse, Free Spirit Publishing, Scarlet Leaf Review, 100 Word Project, Woodcrest Magazine, Confetti, and LitBreak. She's a top health writer for Medium.com, has published self-help books, and is a board member of Clinics4Life. She lives on the East Coast of the US.
