I am eight years old, lying in my parents bed. In another room, my parents are arguing. I drift away feeling this was all my fault. That somehow, I am responsible for the pain and rage around me. That somehow, I have to fix things. That somehow, I am only lovable if I am perfect. It's a heavy, heavy burden to bear. And now I am a mother of four, still bearing this weight.
My youngest brother always had a spacial place in my heart. I watched him grow through years of yeshiva and then, little by little, as his relationship with Orthodox Judaism shifted and morphed into something that belongs to only him and G-d.