In many cultures, food is an expression of love. Sometimes, as was the case for me growing up as a child of immigrants, food might be the only expression of love.
My parents were not very affectionate or communicative about love. My dad gives classic awkward-dad hugs, where he pats your back with self-conscious uncertainty from a good foot and a half away.
My mom hit me so frequently and unexpectedly that my body learned to flinch anytime she got too close. My childhood was punctuated by seasons of my mom’s depression.Read more on tinybuddha.com