Whose hurts cut too deep. Who mean the world, but have it in them to destroy it. Who mean well, who love too, but cannot understand.
Who pave the road to hell. Whose ignorance is a comfort and a pain, because their guilt will kill you faster than their acknowledgement of the messes they cause.
For family. The kind you get, the kind you choose, the kind you lose.
For all the small stuff they forget, the big stuff they shield you from. The miles-long minefield of baggage.
Those horrible nights when you could kill them, the words that broke your heart before you said them. And when you watched the words break their hearts.
And the good times. The pancakes at breakfast, that time the fear of God was put in your bullies, or when she braided your hair.
For the single constant, for home and family. And the times they surprise you.
For the years of drama so you never take shit from anyone else.
For lessons on betrayal, loss, and building walls. Those on what real love and loyalty are.
For sacrifice and compromise, and the knowledge that they love you in the same messed up way that you love them.