By that measure — the only measure that means anything — not one person in that house except me actually loved me at all.

They loved the feeling of loving me.

They loved themselves, wearing my love like a coat.

And when the moment came to prove it, every single one of them protected something else instead.

And I want to say a hard thing about that, gently, for anyone who might be standing where I once stood, still half-believing that a person who harms you can also, sincerely, love you — because I believed it for a long time, and it kept me stuck.

Here is what I finally understood.