I cry a lot now. Both of my parents are dead, and even though our family was dysfunctional, I miss them more than I know how to explain.

There were times I wondered if I was loved—if I was just the pain-in-the-ass kid, half-hidden in the family, tolerated more than cherished. But even then, somewhere deep inside me, I knew I was loved. I just didn’t always feel it.

I’m in my 60s now, and I keep looking backward.

I try to remember the sounds. What it sounded like when my dad came home from work. When my mom walked through the door. I try to remember school, dinner, the feel of my childhood, my teenage years.

None of it is clean. The memories aren’t neat. They’re happy and painful at the same time, tangled together so tightly I can’t pull them apart.

When I think about my life—really think about it—I cry. A lot.

I cry for all the time that’s gone. For what didn’t get said. For what didn’t get fixed.

I cry because I don’t hear my mother call my name anymore. Because I don’t hear her laugh—that laugh that was hers and no one else’s.

My dad hated the phone, but I miss his calls. I miss him asking what I was cooking for dinner, like it mattered, like I mattered. I miss the way we compared notes, like two adults pretending we had it all figured out.

I miss the version of him who was happy. I miss when he called me Peaches. Every time he said it, I felt chosen. Seen. Loved.

I don’t know when life became so hard. I don’t know if it always was and I just had more stamina back then.

All I know is that I cry more than I ever have.

And I don’t like it.

But it’s where I am.