The baby glared, the two half-moons of his mouth puckered indignantly. The midwife inhaled and forced herself to count. Five... four... Babies were adorable, she reminded herself. Three... Two... a deep breath.

Such messes my spouse left behind. Our finances in tricky tangles. Closets, drawers, cupboards sloppily stripped. All the good LPs: gone.

In Rena’s garden, beside the leaning fence, grew a tree as tall as the house was long. With silvery bark and pale, thin leaves, it sheltered summer flowers and watched them sleep through winter.

Melinda’s appointment is at 2 p.m., but she’s been waiting here since noon. “Just jitters,” she explains as I take a seat on the plush, architectural sofa opposite hers.

I’m delighted to present these twelve stories, a rich mix of genres, moods, and styles, exploring aspects of our inner lives.