One day, you wake up and start to evaluate your life. You remember past events, past meetings, past relationships, and start to think, Have I ever truly known love?You think to yourself you must have, right? Especially at an older age. Your deep reflection starts a healing journey you were not ready for, and within that healing, you start to uncover that feelings of appreciation were misinterpreted as love. Appreciation and love seem to be two different words—but are they really? How can a person differentiate the feeling of love and appreciation? If you’re truly open to emotions, you realize they are like conjoined twins—equally as important, seeming identical but also amazingly different—making it easy to confuse the two, even if just in a moment. Let me explain how this can happen. It starts from birth.A hard truth: In strong families, love runs deep, but appreciation doesn’t always find its voice—it often remains unspoken, leaving behind a lack thereof.Words like “I love you” or “thank you” are replaced by warm smiles, quiet hugs, thoughtful gifts, or gentle forehead kisses—gestures that mean a lot,but don’t always fill the silence where words should live.No one teaches you how to be a grandmother, a grandfather, a mother, an aunt, an uncle, a niece, or even a child.You learn by instinct—by watching, absorbing, and following the ones who came before you.Sometimes that guidance is beautiful.Other times, it leaves gaps you don’t notice until you’re the one being followed.And in those longing spaces, the words you needed—the ones meant to show you who you are in life,the ones that teach reciprocation and how to openly receive,the ones that teach who you are as a person—those words can get lost, leaving behind a feeling of lack and uncertainty.Let’s use Mrs. Love as an example.Mrs. Love, the head of her household—the matriarch and mother to seven children: five girls and two boys.She knew these truths all too well, despite the complex identities passed down to her.In her mind, she raised her children better than she had been raised, making sure to feed the empty portions of her story, ensuring her children would not lack where she felt she did.She taught them to stick together and be strong.She taught them to walk with their heads held high and shoulders back—not to slouch. Allowing her past trauma to be erased, she thought of her children as better than her—the generational curse would break, allowing her family to prosper, beating all odds that were held against them.Education was always a top priority. Though fully educated herself, she planned to praise her children’s accomplishments rather than pass judgment—hoping to avoid the missing pieces, the emptiness she once felt before learning to clap for herself and realizing there was no need for outside validation. Not realizing her heart was closed, she did it unknowingly, in order to prevent any additional hurt from being allowed into her energy.Every Sunday, she woke her children for church, feeling it was her duty to continue the tradition set by her own mother. In doing so, she aimed to preserve core values while filling the gaps she felt her mother had missed or misunderstood.Mrs. Love passed these same values down to her eldest daughter, Aymber. When the young mother welcomed her first child—a baby girl named Winter—Mrs. Love became a loving grandmother, allowing her heart to open for a moment to tuck her within it before sealing it again.Winter held a special place in the family—not just because she was her mother’s firstborn, but because she was the first granddaughter. That title put her at the top of the family tree in ways that mattered, though it didn’t always feel that way to Winter, who had been passed down a strong demeanor and an inability to recognize unconditional love.The issue was, the youngest aunt was only a year older than Winter, and the two were raised more like sisters than aunt and niece. That closeness felt good but blurred the lines early on, softening Winter’s emotional claim to the title of firstborn niece—a distinction that shouldn’t have mattered, but somehow did, with no understanding of why.To everyone except her mother and eldest aunt, Winter was just one of the kids. Maybe the family thought it would help her feel included. Or maybe they never realized how confusing that closeness would become as the years passed and the family grew. All they knew was they loved her, and she was important.It wouldn’t be the last time roles blurred. This family had a way of twisting titles and identities without realizing the emotional consequences. For Winter, it planted something quiet and lasting—a feeling that the spotlight she was supposed to hold was never fully hers.When Moagany, the second of the seven siblings, also gave birth to a baby girl—her first child and the first niece to Aymber—it marked a new chapter for the family. Unlike Winter, who had been raised more like a sibling, this baby was clearly seen as the next generation. She was endlessly doted on by all her aunts and uncles, who naturally turned to Aymber, following her lead as they surrounded the child with love and attention.It had been eight years since a baby had entered the family. In that time, everyone had grown older, more settled, more reflective.To Winter, it felt like her time had come and gone. She could see that Moagany’s daughter had awakened something in all of them—a joy they hadn’t felt in years, a quiet sense of renewal.But Winter didn’t feel they needed renewing. She needed to be seen.Almost everyone was overjoyed for Moagany—this wasn’t her first pregnancy, but it was the first to last. In the past, she had suffered miscarriage after miscarriage. Doctors had warned her that her womb might never be able to carry a baby to term.But their pessimism only made her more determined to prove them wrong. As her mother, Mrs. Love, often said, she was stubborn that way—even when it didn’t always make sense.Giving birth to a completely healthy baby girl was nothing short of a miracle—a truly rare blessing, as Moagany would say, an unmistakable sign of God’s grace.Though unwed—which was the part that made no sense to her mother—Moagany felt no shame. Her sister had also given birth to Winter outside of marriage, so to Moagany, it felt natural—almost expected. In truth, she had longed for the kind of love a child brings—craving the bond she had watched her sister experience. And now, the two shared something even deeper than just sisterhood: they were both mothers to daughters.The new baby was born with a high yellow complexion—noticeably lighter than the rest of the family, especially Winter. Her head was bald, except for a single tuft of hair that stood straight up in the center. Her eyes were large—so large that some would say, “As big as an ostrich’s.”When their sister River, the third-born of the seven children, took one look at Moagany’s baby, her nose wrinkled as she let out a soft giggle.“She looks just like Tweety Bird,” she said.Moagany burst into laughter. It was one of those moments when you couldn’t unsee the obvious—and from then on, the entire family, and those closest to her, called the baby Tweety Bird—or simply, Tweet.Winter smiled along with the others, but something in her chest pulled tight.She didn’t remember ever getting a nickname that stuck—not one said with that same kind of affection, that same collective warmth.No one had called her anything special—just Winter.The early years flew by quickly, barely giving anyone time to adjust.It seemed everyone was amazed by the little girl’s growth, even as they maneuvered through the complications of their own lives.Tweet showed signs of being advanced—wise beyond her years.The family would often say it was as if she had lived another life before this one.Her speech was sharp and clear, her vocabulary more fitting for a child twice her age.Her heart was open, generous, and full of understanding—even as a toddler.Winter didn’t understand what was so spectacular. But she learned to ignore the silent grudge growing inside her.Instead, she found inner comfort in the one thing Tweet could never take from her—she was older than her little yellow cousin.Even though her mother had a separate apartment on the other side of town, Tweet spent most of her days at her grandmother’s house—too young to realize that this was actually where she lived.No one ever pointed it out—not even Winter.It felt normal. For the most part, the immediate family still lived there, and those who didn’t visited so often it was as if they never left.The home was large and tall, owned by Tweet’s grandmother, Mrs. Love, and her beloved “grandfather,” whom she called Granddaddy.It wouldn’t be until later in life that Tweet would learn he wasn’t her biological grandfather—but in every way that truly mattered, he would always remain her Granddaddy.The family lived in the most lavish home on the street, standing proudly at the center of a quiet cul-de-sac.With five bedrooms, two bathrooms, and an attached garage, the home was spacious and solid—opulent in its way, with a foundation that felt unshakable.The lower level was red brick, some bricks speckled with small white spots, giving it texture and character. The upper level featured clean white siding—but only along the front. From the back, the house appeared to be entirely brick. A black roof and matte black shutters gave it a crisp, elegant finish.The house left an impression on anyone who happened to get lost and drive by. That was the only way someone who didn’t belong would ever have the chance to lay eyes on the grand estate—using the no-outlet street as a loop to make their way back toward the main road.To the little girl, the backyard seemed enormous. In truth, it was modest—just under half an acre—but it felt like a secret garden. There was a tall apple tree growing proudly in one corner, and it quickly became her favorite. Tomatoes, potatoes, grapes, and mulberries also grew in the garden, but the apple tree called to her the most.She was too small to reach the apples on her own, but sometimes—if she was lucky—one would fall. She’d find a large green fruit nestled in the grass like a gift from the sky. She’d grab it with both hands, clutching it close to her chest, and race back toward the house.The sliding glass door at the back entrance was heavy and stubborn, always hard for her to open. Usually, someone would hear her tapping and open it from the inside. She’d dash through the kitchen, barefoot on the cold tile, apple in hand.

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A Lack Of Appreciation

iamauthentick

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