loved

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I don’t know when it happened, but it dates with my earliest memories. The cat, the old gray cat I barely remember, scratched me, and my mother and I both remonstrated in our way. I shook a pudgy finger at him and scolded. “Bad cat!”
Gently my mother corrected me. “He’s not a bad cat. He’s a good cat and we love him, even though he did a bad thing.”
Even at the time, I took a larger message away from that moment. I knew that even when I was bad — even when I squealed and whined, even when I jumped on the bed, even when my sister and I invaded my father’s study (most forbidden in itself) and used his permanent markers to draw all over each other’s limbs and torsos — that my parents would love me.
Not every child knows that. If you hate getting teary-eyed in public, don’t read this in public.
I am participating in NaBloPoMo.

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