Jessica grew into a fiery, curly-haired force overflowing with a lovely combination of sass and grace. She took to the arts and taught herself to draw, paint, and make comic books. I cherished her drawings and cards, and to this day, I still have one of her elementary school projects tacked up on our fridge.

I missed a lot of my sister’s formative years.

The last thing I was looking for while living in cramped corporate housing with rented furniture was another pet. I got home one evening, and my husband said, “I found a cat. I think it’s living in the bushes.”

A few days later, I walked downstairs and spotted a tortoiseshell fur ball sunning on the sidewalk. As soon as the stairwell door closed, it popped up and ran toward me.

In my adolescence, acceptance conjured anxiety and strife. Regardless of my thoughts and feelings, I was told, “Just accept it,” or discouraged from questioning through the silent treatment.

Our house wasn’t an environment of nurturing conversations. Important topics of where I stayed while she worked nights, to what I ate, or who I was friends with were off-limits to negotiate.

My Aunt Dalene, DeDe, as I called her, was a gem of a lady. My heart smiles, thinking of her.

She cultivated joy and laughter and allowed me to feel seen and heard. DeDe loved me when I felt invisible and taught me more than she’ll ever know.

This was the woman that allowed my tender adolescent soul to be recognized when I mostly felt ignored.