Pretend

I pretended that they were my parents.

The other night I went to the movies with them, expecting the usual gaggle of kids, but there weren't any.  It was just us.

We sat in the theater, talking through the commercials, sharing jokes, and I thought about how lucky these kids are to have a mom who can hold an eloquent conversation and then listen, making the reply sound just as important and elegant.  I think how lucky they are to have a dad who teases them kindly, and frosts each cupcake like it belongs in the Guggenheim.

I think about my own parents, who are partial, fragmented, broken.  Fragile.  I took care of them. They weren't my parents.  They were lost little kids who didn't know how to connect with anyone, let alone me, their caretaker.

I look back at my friends' parents who have become surrogates for Stu and myself, and I think about how imperfect they are, but content to muddle through life and figure it out.  To keep going, to meet each challenge, to go on, even when life is cripplingly painful.

My parents gave up a long time ago.

I sit in the theater with these pretend parents, watching their faces as the movie explodes on the screen.  They get why I love it.  They understand it.  And me.

Something my parents have never been able to do.

Just for the night, I pretend these beautiful, intelligent, warm, and resilient people are my parents.  Just for the night, I pretend that my short and brutal life is something else, somewhere else.  Where my independence and uniqueness were affirmed.  Where someone actually understood my passions and encouraged them.  Where I really felt loved.

Nobody's family is perfect.  But their home reminds me of the Weasleys, a home that's "not much," but full of light and laughter and food and love.

So for the night, I pretended I was their kid, that I was valued.

I know I won't ever matter as much as their kids -- it can't be helped, I'm not actually theirs -- but for those few hours, I felt like I did.

It was incredible.