At four years old, Jack Kelly knew what family was. It was yelling and screaming and at each other, sometimes crying, it was being scared and feeling safe somehow in the same moment, but in the end, it was knowing his father and his mother had his back.
At six years old, Jack Kelly was less sure of himself, more sure of the power of hunger and a few good kicks. Family meant sitting quietly with his head down, looking like he was praying and really planning, being scared of his father but still knowing, somehow, he had Jack’s back, until suddenly nobody had Jack’s back and family wasn’t a word he needed, families were groups of people who acted like they cared but didn’t, really.
At ten years old, Jack Kelly’s family was the faces in his sketchbook, held close to his body like armor and tucked under his pillow like they would chase away the dreams he hated of the bad times, when he all wanted or claimed to remember were the good ones.
At twelve years old, Jack Kelly’s family was hatred, it was anger and grief and all of the other things he’d kept bottled up for years, it was everything he hated about himself and all the things he’d learned to hate about his father, and it was anger at the woman who seemed so determined to get Jack to call her his mother.
At fourteen years old, Jack Kelly’s family was breakfasts and sunrises and painting, and the smell of new erasers and paper and laughter with his mother, his mom. It was finally being happy right where he was, not scared or worried about food, he was happy.
At sixteen years old, family was real for Jack Kelly. Family was legal, it was on paper, it was forever. It was hugs and comfort and really, truly being there for each other. It was knowing that when he had a bad day, he could go home every time and talk about it and be listened to.
At twenty years old, Jack Kelly’s family included sitting in a room full of people he knew as well as he knew himself. It was movie nights with his boyfriend’s head in his lap and laughter that didn’t stop, and a group chat full of nonsensical jokes that only made sense to them. It was laughing until he cried and people who were always there when he needed them to be, not only his mom but his friends.
At twenty-six years old, Jack Kelly’s legal family grew, grew with a hyphen to attach to his last name along with a dance and a short kiss and a title. Husband. Jack Kelly was a husband, he had a husband, his family was the same size as it had been six years ago, but it was different now, stronger and better.
At twenty-nine years old, Jack Kelly-Morris had his heart broken when it looked like his family would grow, when it looked like the little boy he’d wanted to call his son would be his son, only to have him moved and taken away, and maybe Jack understood why but that didn’t mean he had to like the way it felt.
At thirty years old, Jack Kelly-Morris had one daughter and then two, adopted and soon to be. He had bedtime stories and painting nights and mac-n-cheese and Disney movies and days in the park. He had two little girls who called to him when they were scared and hugged him when he came home from work. He had a husband to fall into bed next to, exhausted and happy with his family.
At thirty years old, Jack Kelly-Morris knew what family was. It was laughter and fighting and making up and love, it was everything hed ever wanted, it was seeing little faces and big faces light up just from being around each other, and it was trusting, and it was knowing that forever, no matter what, they were his. His friends, his mom, his husband, his kids. His family.