I had already almost died a number of times. When we visited our glamorous Welsh friends in Mumbles, where Dylan Thomas had once lived, we swam in a tidal river that evidently had a killer current. Apparently, my sisters, one six, the other nine, were meant to serve as lifeguards. I was three. My mother described me as “bouncy,” which might have meant floaty. I had also been lost on Fire Island for twelve hours, and my father convinced drowned. Waking up to a house full of hungover adults and my sleeping cousins and sisters, I decided to go for a walk on the beach. As the evening approached, I found myself sitting on the counter of a man who had walked up to me and said, “Is your name Molly Moynahan?” He had called the police, who called my hysterical parents. He gave me Pecan Sandies and forbidden orange soda.

Molly MoynahanMarch 29, 2025

The Beginning (Revised)

My family believed in Dickens, root vegetables, ignoring difficult truths, and Louis Kahn. They believed in making fun of the fat, the unintelligent, the poorly read, the conservative, and God. We believed in Ireland and scorned the Brits but loved England and adored the Beatles and hated The Monkees. I had no idea what was morally correct as a child, except you should suffer for everyone and not show off. You should tell a good story, and when your parents drank, go to bed, and hold your breath and hope morning comes fast. You should swim in the ocean as frequently as possible, not expect praise for mediocre effort, and remain aware that mediocrity would be determined by two incredibly talented and impressive people who both graduated from Harvard. You were fucked.

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