Start of English Memior

I grew up hearing the words “Good night. I love you. See you in the morning,” from my mom every night. On Saturdays and Sundays, it was my dad tucking us in. No, it’s probably not what you’re thinking. They weren’t divorced. Quite the opposite, in fact. They were, and still are, happily married despite the rising divorce rate. My dad worked nights, so it was my mom telling us every night to go brush my teeth, it was time for bed. My mom made dinner every night, and we all sat down together to eat. On Sundays she made a big meal: meat, potatoes, vegetables. We didn’t ask any questions. That was just the way it was. Since we didn’t invest in a television until I was nine, we often occupied lazy Saturday nights with family board games. Sorry, Uno, Golf. We were all pros at them.
“Mom, that’s not fair. She took my red card. Tell her to give it back.” Stamping feet, pouting faces, and thrown cards punctuated each complaint.
“Well, honey, she doesn’t know any better. She’s only three.”
I had you typical, average family. At least to me it was. In my nine year old brain, I never noticed that most kids had one or two brothers and sisters, not three sisters and one brother. It was ok with me. Big families meant we always had someone to play with, someone was always up to entertaining. I was used to sharing a bedroom and having my clothes stolen from my drawers. I didn’t say I liked it.
“Mom! Tell Rachel next time she wants to read one of my books to ASK,” I shouted up the stairs into the kitchen, where my mom was making brownies.
“Honey, learn to live with it. You’ve got nine more years of this,” she would always shout back, annoying me even more.
We would get up faithfully every Sunday at 7:30 to make the one hour trek to Clifton for church. No liked getting up early for church, but, once again, that was something that we never questioned. Of course, there were complaints every week. The same incessant ones. “Dad, I don’t want to get up. I’m tired.” And there were the magical 1 hour stomach aches. “Dad, I can’t go to church. My stomach hurts.” And if by chance he gave in, our stomach bug would magically disappear an hour later, just in time eat warm, sticky cinnamon buns.
But even though we had a content family, there was still something missing. It was kind of like when mom throws out one of your shirts. You know that something is missing; you just can’t seem to figure it out.