When I ran away from home at the age of 9 with a Barbie suitcase, I went to her house.

When I and 3 of my best friends needed a place to sleep off a party, we crashed at Aunt Meg’s.

When I showed up at 2AM, soaking wet with nothing but the clothes on my back, she gave me an old t-shirt while she washed my clothes and let me use all the hot water to shower. Then she made whatever warm drink I pleased without asking about what brought me to her house at such an ungodly hour.

Best of all, when my mother called, ranting and raving, she calmed her down and didn’t make me talk to her if I didn’t feel like it.

Even if all she had in large enough quantity to feed me was pancake mix, it was the most delicious meal in the world.

She was technically my great-aunt, my grandmother’s older sister. She had long silver hair, which she wore however she pleased.

It wasn’t until her funeral today I learned her first name wasn’t Meg.