Last Thanksgiving, in one of many moments of exasperated disbelief that accompany any trip home, I pulled my middle sister, Brecken, aside.
“I think you’re weird,” I told her, “and that a lot of stuff is wrong with you.”
Her expression didn’t waver. After all, it can’t have been the first time she’s been told that.
“But,” I continued, “hanging out with our family right now, I just want to let you know that you’ve turned out about as well as you could, and that I’m proud of you.”
She looked at me with an expression of actual appreciation on her face, validating every facet of my just-made point. She opened her mouth to speak.
“Meow!” she said, and hugged me.
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