I have three nieces. It's safe to assume that each one has already realized that their goal in life is to be like me. They're probably taking extensive notes about achieving higher Aubrey-ness right now.
Anyway, one of them, Kayla, I have known the longest – since she was two months old, actually, when my brother and his first wife adopted her.
(Please note that as my mother carries Kayla, she is featuring a coiffure a la Patsy Stone)
As for the years that have followed, some of them were very rough, specifically those bookmarking her adoped parents' very acrid – the smoke still hasn't cleared – divorce. Myself, I will never have anything to do with the mother again.
But that's a topic I don't plan on discussing here. There are some septic systems whose contents I plan on sifting first. Frankly, it's rather the same thing.
Then my brother remarried, and they shifted their roots south and east, to Bay Minette, Alabama, where her new family lived. Now, her southern accent ebbs and flows, but like the ocean, it's always there.
I taught her to play 'Paper, Scissors, Rock'.
Once, when I explained to her that her father was my brother, she exclaimed, "Don't talk about my dad like that!"
And last Saturday she went to her High-School Prom.