Picture it: A campsite, in the height of summer. A campfire crackling away merrily in front of you, spitting showers of orange sparks into the inky blackness of the night sky. You’re wearing a Patagonia fleece, which will smell faintly of wood smoke for weeks. You can just make out the outline of people sitting across the fire from you, clamoring for space above the flames as they roast their marshmallows. Some char them, pulling off the shattered blackened crust to reveal a gooey lump within. Some treat it like an art form, lightly toasting them to a perfectly uniform golden hue. Some (okay fine, YOU) just hang out eating marshmallows straight from the bag. Keeping it real, kids. Keeping it real.

I come from very emotionally demonstrative family. We say “love you” in place of “goodbye” on the telephone. We compliment each other; we rarely go upstairs to bed without a hug; we hold hands in public (let’s just say it’s a good thing my brown-haired, blue-eyed sisters and I all look very much like sisters). We dash off silly notes to each other. We throw out affection casually, without effort, like breathing. (With a dad who happily dresses in a Santa hat and Carhartts to take Christmas pictures with all the animals, how could you not?)