(I am twelve. My parents go away for a weekend together while my older sister watches me at home. Saturday evening she decides that we shouldn’t sit around inside doing nothing and tells me we are going for a walk. My lazy preteen self doesn’t care for that, but I know better than to argue with her and go upstairs to get dressed. On my way back down, I trip, tumble, and end up hitting the first floor hard. It quickly becomes apparent something is wrong with my ankle. My sister helps me get to the couch, where I sit shaking and sniffling with an ice pack on my foot, while she hurriedly gathers our things to take me to urgent care.)

Sister: “You know, if you really didn’t want to go for a walk, you could have just said no!”

(All the way until we saw the doctor and I got a soft brace for my torn ligament, she talked about my “melodrama” to keep me laughing. “Just say no” became a family joke for a while after that.)

(My father, sisters, and I are visiting our grandparents for New Year’s. We’re all piled into their SUV, as it’s easier to take one vehicle, and getting ready to go out to dinner. My grandmother, sisters, and I are in the back two rows while my dad and grandpa are up front. As we’re pulling out of the drive way, we notice that the lights in Dad’s vehicle are on. It turns out I hadn’t shut the door all the way when I got something out of there earlier.)

Grandma: “Yup, men have good eyes, they do. Not much gets past them.”

Sister: *in the furthest back row* “Yeah, not much gets through to them, either.”

(We’re all trying hard not to laugh too loud, because neither of them noticed, being in the far front and in conversation.)

(My sister and I — both adults, more or less — are at our parents’ for Christmas. We’re all playing dominoes, at which my dad is truly terrible.)

Dad: “I just never have the right number! Look at this: four, four, I just need four! *he holds up his fingers as he counts* “One, two, three, four!”

Me: “Un, deux, trois, quatre!” *also holding up fingers*

Dad: “Ichi, ni, san, chi!”

Me: “Ein, zwei, drei, vier!”

Sister: *holds up fingers* “Shut. The. F***. Up.”

(Ah, family!)

(My dad and I love to make references. My mom never gets them, and my brother gets annoyed when he does get them. It’s Christmas and we’ve just finished opening our presents. I’m in the process of taking all of my presents downstairs, and as I’m doing so, the others are talking about gambling, as a joke, since every year we all get lottery tickets in our stockings.)

Brother: “Who gambles in this family?”

Dad: “Oh, you know, your mom, her sister…”

(He’s still talking as we both look over at Mom.)

Brother: “You gamble?”

(She shakes her head no with a smile on her face.)

Dad: “No, she’s too cheap.”

Mom: *laughs* “Didn’t have the money.”

Dad: “Yeah, she knows when to hold ’em, knows when to fold ’em…”

(I smile because I know where he’s going with this.)

Me: “Knows when to walk away? Knows when to run?”

Brother: “Oh, jeez.”

Dad: “She never counts her money when she’s sitting at the table.”

Me: “There’ll be time enough for counting when the dealing’s done!”

(My brother groaned, Dad and I laughed, and my mother just shrugged like she always does when she doesn’t get it.)

I was diagnosed with an Atrial Septal Defect (ASD) at twelve. Basically, it was a hole in my heart the size of a quarter, that needed open-heart surgery to repair. After a year of cardiology appointments to get my heart up to surgery-worthy levels, we schedule it and are ready to go.

The night before my surgery, I am playing a board game with my sister and best friend. Mom walks into the room and looks at us, cracks up, and quickly leaves. We look down and realize what I was doing: Playing Operation, trying to get the broken heart piece out, and losing miserably.

Thankfully, my surgical team had much more success with my broken heart than I did with the plastic one.