Last night I wanted to tell you about how the world will always hate you for something. The tree in our backyard rots. First the branches blackened and then it went bald from crown to root. That’s the way things work in the world sometimes. The ugliness isn’t as obvious until someone’s naked. Our parents loved us only one way. I can’t promise we’ll do more than a lick’s worth better. We’ll try. We’ll try to hide things from you, like how your grandmother could, with a wrist flick, leave a bruise the size of an apple, how your mother learned that pain can muster submission. Your father will swallow his tiny violences, trying to love you while also loving himself. We hide out of love too. When you’re scared, we’ll remind you how you both nestled against one another in the womb. Let us sell you on this world; let us tell you all can be rebuilt.