Most of us do not grow up learning what love is.
We learn to earn it.
And that, is a different story.
In my home, love came softly — but never freely.
Like a fragile piece of artwork that needed gentle care.
It came when I was quiet.
When I was clever.
When I calmed the storm I was born into.
They called me a miracle, because I didn’t cry much — even as a baby.
They told me I was born to save the family.
And I believed them.
Not because I understood what that meant, but because they said it with pride.
With relief.
As if being born to fix something broken was a gift.
As if silence, stillness, composure, obedience were things to admire — not symptoms to grieve.
No one asked why the baby never cried.
They were too busy clapping.
Years later, I live in a home with two small dogs.
One has been with me for nearly half my life.
The other came more recently, from a house that only knew neglect and punishment.
The older one is quiet. “Smart.” Attentive.
He tiptoes around my father like a soldier who remembers his first day in the field:
a midnight rage, a mess on the floor, the kind of fear that never fully leaves the body.
For over a decade, he’s been “the good one.”
Quiet. Obedient. Predictable.
Everyone praised him for it.
They never looked twice at how tense his small body was.
The younger one… didn’t come into this family with fear.
Not exactly.
He came in loud. Sharp. All bark and bite.
He wasn’t trained for silence — and he didn’t care if you wanted it.
He didn’t ask softly. He demanded.
He was called “the bad one” from the start.
But not by me.
I remember one night clearly.
My mother had just come home — drained, and irritable.
She collapsed onto the couch, trying to sink into stillness.
The younger dog trotted up to her immediately, tail wagging, making noise. Wanting attention after a long day apart.
She didn’t see longing.
She saw chaos.
And she snapped. Loud. Sharp. Angry.
Not fully at him — but at me.
"Shut him up."
But I didn’t.
I picked him up, brought him into my lap where I was working, and kissed him on the forehead.
He stopped barking.
Just like that.
He wasn’t being “difficult.”
He just didn’t know how to ask gently.
He never learned how to wrap need in sweetness to make it more acceptable.
When my mother saw us — now quietly breathing in sync — she scoffed:
"Look at them acting like little angels. As if they’re not little demons."
No.
They were never demons.
They just didn’t fit into a version of love that demanded obedience before tenderness.
Neither did I.
When I was a child, I bit back in different ways.
Neither with teeth, nor with barks.
But with thoughts I wasn’t supposed to think.
Questions I wasn’t supposed to ask.
I was loved most when I was easiest to look at.
But never truly held when I was real.
And my dogs… they’re not just pets to me.
They are my mirrors.
One carries the ghost of who I was — gentle, fearful, always scanning the room for danger.
The other carries who I’m becoming — messy, reactive, full of sound, full of self.
I never punished either of them for their noise.
Even when they bite me.
I let them.
And then, seconds later, I let them sleep on my lap — teeth tucked away, breath soft against my skin.
