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But I am happy.

Books make me happy.

Snow makes me happy.

Jellyfish make me happy.

Dad’s library makes me happy.

Even Mom’s hugs make me happy.

Mom is the first to notice me watching. Her expression softens immediately.

“Moonbeam.”

She hands Dad her pale-pink clutch and walks toward me.

I count her steps without meaning to.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

She stops in front of me.

Good.

Eight feels right.

Seven would’ve drove me inside all night.

Mom kneels until we’re at the same height.

She always does that.

She never talks down to me. She comes down to where I am, as if quietly reminding me that no matter how small I might feel, she’ll always meet me there.

I look into her warm caramel eyes and realize something with absolute certainty.

I do feel love.

Maybe not the way everyone else does. Maybe not as loudly.

But it’s there.

And I love my mom.