You shouldn’t have had to read the eulogy that I wrote for you for your Mom. Not at eleven years old.
You shouldn’t have to hug adult relatives and say, “It’s OK. We’ll get through this together.”
You don’t have to try to be brave for the rest of us.
You don’t have to be this strong.
You didn’t have to force me to sit in the chair while you sang that Flo Rida song and danced next to me, throwing your hands in the ayer ay-ayer ayer ay-ayer.
But I’m so glad that you could.
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