You were there for me when I wasn’t there for me. And I’m not sure how to feel about that.

Is that why I’ve loved you since the day I met you? Or is that simply a reason to hold onto something that isn’t quite there any longer?

My parents are celebrating their 32nd anniversary, and I’m happy for them, but it makes me wonder. How many of those years were full of survival mode, and how many more are to come?

How many years of happiness come from just them and not from having their kids?

If I were to have a time machine and tell them how their life played out, they’d sign up immediately, but it feels like they have no idea how much more they could have if they just figured out how to play the game a little better.

I can list you a bunch of different things than identifying as your kids, but I guess that’s how it works.

Because if you were to ask me about myself, I’d probably tell you about my dad and how he is the wisest person you’ll ever meet. He just doesn’t know how to communicate it all the time, which doesn’t exactly showcase his strength.

I’d tell you about my mom and how she’s willing to sacrifice it all for her family, but she’s also a human being, so she has feelings and gets sick too. She’ll never tell you that, though.

I’d tell you about my little sister, who’s been resilient since her first day born. I’ve never looked up the survival rate of a premature baby, but that’s probably because, as much as I have disagreements with her, I couldn’t imagine a world without her. She’s what I would’ve been if I was the middle child, and she has set the bar.

I’d tell you about my little brother and how he was raised in the most innocent way possible. He may have seen a little struggle, but I waited on him for nine years to pick up the second controller on the PlayStation.

I guess I could understand my parents identifying with us. Because if you were to ask me about myself, I’d tell you about my family because to know my family is to know me and to know me is to know my family.