When I was four, my brother was born and I quietly watched as my mother hummed, fed him and rocked him to sleep.

Once, while playing in the front yard with a neighbor, I watched my father walk out of the house and turn to kiss my mother goodbye.

I sat at the table in my Grandma Rose’s kitchen, playing a game with my cousins while keeping an eye on my grandmother as she buzzed around, preparing a meal for us with no recipe, just dashes of tenderness.

I observed what love looks like.