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“Then fuck them,” she says icily. “Fuck anyone who makes you feel like you’re too much. If they feel that way, they aren’t enough for you.”
What if love is like anything else humans strive at—something you can fail at spectacularly, and, by contrast, by some mysterious, terrifying chance of sharing it with the right person, through hard work and hope, something you can also do spectacularly well?
He peers my way again and holds my eyes. “You and me, Lu. We’ll be brave together. Little bit by little bit, okay? No pressure to do or be something by a certain date, no shoulds or judgments or deadlines. Just you and me, trying our best, cheering each other on. How’s that for a deal?”
Mom glances my way, smiling brighter and says, “Home is not a place. Home is . . . this.” She glances around the table. “Our hearts, our love, knitting us together, wherever we are. Wherever life takes you, may you know you have a home in our hearts, and may your hearts always be each other’s home.”
