Being an aunty is a deranged kind of love. When I first became an aunty, I marched into the neonatal intensive care unit (do not do this) and picked up my niece's tiny body, declaring her the most perfect being in history.
Possessed by the same feeling I have been mainlining for the past four years, 90% of my correspondence with my niece-provider (brother) is now niece-related, with no achievement too small for a lengthy FaceTime.
For a few years, my devotion was met with contempt and, if I was lucky, indifference. This only encouraged me. For years, I gave her every trick in the book, putting myself out there, acting the clown. Anything for her attention, let alone love.
That feeling made me remember the things my uncles and aunties had done for me over the years, no questions asked. Driving me to appointments in the middle of a workday, or getting up at the crack of dawn to take me to the airport. Their lifelong interest in my activities.
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