I raised my children in upstate New York—quiet, rural, and a world away from the chaos of Boston where I grew up. When I first moved there, my now ex‑husband decided my Boston accent was a personal failing. He wanted a “refined” wife, whatever that meant. Every time I dropped an R—watah, cah—he’d correct me. Then he escalated to dope‑slapping me for it. A year of that, and I learned to pause before speaking, shaping every word like I was defusing a bomb. Eventually, I sounded like I came from nowhere at all.
My kids, though? They sounded like kids. Smart ones. Ben declared he wanted to be a paleontologist at four. Avery could hold a conversation that made strangers stare. They were brilliant, articulate, and blissfully unaware of the politics of accents.
Every Easter we visited my parents in Massachusetts. They were… complicated with me, but adored my children. Well—most of them. Rowan was always the exception, but that’s a story for another day.
Part of the holiday ritual was attending church with them. Non‑negotiable. We filed into their usual pew—front row, naturally. My father was the lector that day, seated up on the altar, watching his grandchildren with pride. They stood, sat, knelt, prayed—perfect little angels.
Until the final three minutes.
The priest stepped forward to dismiss everyone and, in a thick Southie drawl, boomed:
“Happy Easta!”
And my darling son Ben—who had spent his entire life hearing his father scold me for dropping R’s—stood up straight, projected like he was addressing the UN, and announced:
“Your highness, there’s an R in Easter.”
Dead. Silence.
My father’s smile froze. Then cracked. Then he burst into hysterical laughter. Even the priest laughed. My mother, mortified on my behalf, leaned over and said, “They’re from New York.”
Meanwhile Ben, confused, whispered, “What did I do wrong?”
We have never been required to attend church again.
Still standing, wondering how many times that story has been retold,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 