This essay is Part Two of a four-part series exploring the small stories that quietly shape the way we love. If you missed last week’s essay, The Things That Get in the Way of Love (Part 1), you may want to start there. While each piece stands on its own, together they tell the story of a single Saturday morning that unraveled something I didn’t know I believed.

The older I get, the less interested I become in assigning blame. Memory isn’t a courtroom, and I don’t need a verdict. What fascinates me now are the stories children quietly write about themselves long before they have the language to question them.

Growing up, I was the only girl sandwiched between two brothers. My older brother, Ben, demanded a tremendous amount of attention. My younger brother somehow seemed to collect praise without trying. Looking back, I don’t remember a childhood without love. My parents loved all three of us deeply. What I remember instead is movement. The constant choreography of a busy family trying to get everyone where they needed to be.

Wednesday mornings were the clearest example.

My brothers and I attended different schools, so Wednesdays started early. Before I was fully awake, I was already sprinting down the hallway yelling, “Shotgun!” Whoever called it first claimed the front seat of our converted red Ford van, and the front seat was paradise. It had its own heater vent, its own window, and—most importantly—no brothers. No Punch Buggy. No Padiddle. No dirty socks shoved in my face. No elbows. No farts. Just warmth, quiet, and enough room to fall asleep against the window while Colorado disappeared outside.

Calling shotgun was only the first race.

Next came the shower. Then breakfast.

If I was fast enough, there would still be Rice Krispies. If I hesitated, I was left with Wheaties, which, even at eight years old, tasted less like breakfast and more like punishment. I can still remember opening the pantry and seeing the empty blue Rice Krispies box folded neatly back onto the shelf as if someone wanted to soften the disappointment. I would sigh, pour the Wheaties anyway, and drown them in enough sugar to convince myself they were something else.

At the time, it all felt perfectly ordinary. Families have routines. Kids race for the front seat. Cereal runs out. Looking back, though, I wonder if I was learning something I couldn’t yet name.

Ben needed a lot. He was brilliant, funny, impulsive, and forever pushing against the edges of whatever came next. My mom was exhausted more often than I realized. I watched their battles from the hallway, from the dinner table, from the backseat of that van. I don’t remember anyone telling me not to ask for too much. I don’t remember anyone saying that needing people was a problem.

I just remember how much easier life seemed when I didn’t.

Somewhere along the way, I became the easy one. The independent one. The child who could entertain herself, solve her own problems, and wait her turn without making much noise. Independence wasn’t just encouraged; it was admired. I wore it like a merit badge.

What I didn’t realize was that every strength has a shadow.

I learned to feel safest when people came looking for me.

If someone called my name, I mattered.

If someone sought me out, I was wanted.

But going toward someone first? Asking? Needing? That felt different. That felt dangerous in a way I could never quite explain. It was safer to wait. Safer to be chosen than to risk discovering I wasn’t.

I didn’t know it then, but I would carry that belief with me for decades.

Next week, the story returns to that Saturday morning.

A bowl of cereal.

A twelve-year-old who quietly walked back upstairs.

And a kitchen where I found myself waiting… far longer than I realized.

I thought I was waiting to have a conversation about the internet.

I wasn’t.