My Parents' Love

I don't remember a big talk. No lecture. No life lessons carved on tablets.

But I remember how they looked at each other. I remember the giggles in the kitchen. The soft teasing while folding laundry. The way my dad would hug my mom from behind like it was the most natural thing in the world, and the way she'd lean back into it without even thinking.

They said, "I love you," a lot.

But even if they hadn't, I would have known.

Because love lived in the little things: in the shared jokes and silly dances, in the way they touched each other's hands, even in the middle of a grocery aisle.

That's how I learned what love looked like. Not on TV, not from books—just watching them. It sank in quietly, without me realizing it, but it shaped me.

It made me someone who loves love. Someone who looks for connection, who thinks affection isn't weakness, and that telling someone how you feel is never something to be embarrassed about.

I didn't always thank them for that, and I wish I had, because they gave me something really rare. Not just the ability to love, but the courage to show it.

And that's a gift I carry with me every single day.

This has been a love letter to a forgotten thing, and to the quiet lessons passed between two people holding hands.