My family reads my blog, and they tell me about it, even if they don’t leave comments. They read my stories, and then don’t tell me anything. That’s cool. They love me, even if they don’t say it.
Tonight, the bedtime ritual was full of the usual complaining and squabbling among the nieces. Angst-y teenager being angst-y teenager, bratty little sister being bratty little sister, love was hard to find.
And then somebody got hurt.
As a result, we just had one of those family conversations that begin as small conflicts, escalate to explosions, conflagrate for a while, then end in calm warming coals of reason and understanding.
If only we could start with those coals and forego the explosions.