I believe that families are not only blood relatives, but sometimes just people that show up and love you when no one else will.
In May, 1977, I lived in a 1)Howard Johnson's motel off of Interstate 10 in Houston. My dad and I shared a room with two double beds and a bathroom way too small for a modest 15-year-old girl and her father. Dad's second marriage was in trouble and my stepmother had kicked us both out of the house the previous week. Dad had no idea what to do with me. And that's when my other family showed up.
Barbara and Roland Beach took me into their home because their only daughter, Su, my best friend, asked them to. I lived with them for the next seven years.
Barb 2)starched my drill team skirts same as Su's. She made sure I had lunch money, doctors' appointments, help with homework, Jordache jeans, 3)puka shell necklaces and nightly hugs. Barbara and Roland attended every football game where Su and I marched, every drama performance I was in even when I had no speaking lines. As far as I could tell, for the Beaches, there was no difference between Su and me: I was their daughter, too.