I remember when I became an adult that December, sitting in the back seat of the car with my sister in the cold, waiting for our mother to finish kissing a man who was not her husband. Is this what Love is? My mother was always in too much love, but none of it ever felt like it was for me.
I remember how it felt to distract my sister from realizing that parents aren't perfect. With Christmas carols still ringing in my ears, I tried to love her enough for everything to be okay and for nothing to ever hurt. I'm still trying.