But sitting on my porch in Rochester, watching my children disappear into sleeping bags they actually chose, drinking hot chocolate with marshmallows my daughter counted one by one, I finally understood what my father had meant.
“The house doesn’t hold itself up, kid.”
But neither do you. Neither do you.
At what point does loyalty to your family become betrayal of yourself? I found my answer at 11:07 p.m. on a Wednesday night in November, driving south on Highway 52 with two sleeping bags in the back seat and a pie between my feet.
I think you already know yours.
I think you’ve known for a while.
The difference now is that you know you’re allowed to say it out loud.
