There’s a reason the only thing I’ll settle for is something like my parents had. Because it was pure. It wasn’t ugly, bogged down by never-ending resentment or toxicity. Mom used to tell us those smooth bits came with time, that nothing is ever perfect in the beginning, and even when they seem perfect later on, they’re not. But to me, to any outsider looking in? It sure as hell looked perfect. I watched my dad spin my mom around the kitchen every day of my life until I moved out. I listened to their stories, their laughter. They loved hard, and it was palpable. I could always feel it as much
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