a wound you cannot touch; a scar you cannot hold
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Dennis had always been small. Mom said it was because she’d used up all her energy making three big healthy boys and he was all she had left in her, but realistically it was probably just that he was always fighting for scraps. A runt of the litter, through and through, and even though Dad put him in football to try and toughen him up and have him tousling with the other kids, he was always left shaking near the sidelines after.
Or: Dennis had loved his family, really. His parents had sacrificed so much for him, and he would always be grateful for that. He loved his brothers once, too, but it was hard to look back at them and not remember the baggage of everything that happened.
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