When I was a child, my older brother had this teddy bear named Ogilvy. He was a squishy teddy with black eyes and pale yellow fur. And I loved him. Secretly.
I would steal into my brother's room when he wasn't around and snuggle Ogilvy and pretend he was my bear. I had many bears of my own, but none was as special to me as Ogilvy was. There was something in his deep, dark eyes that made me feel safe.
One day I returned home from school and went looking for Ogilvy. He was nowhere to be found. I went to my mother and asked where he went. My mother had been on a cleaning spree and had garbage-bagged a bunch of my brother's old toys that he no longer wanted. Ogilvy was now on his way to the dump. I fought back tears as I expressed my complete love for the bear.
"How was I supposed to know?" my mother replied.
I ran to my room and cried. I felt ashamed that I'd kept my love a secret, because now, Ogilvy was gone and he was never coming back. And ashamed that I'd loved at all. Because no one understood. After all, he was just a bear.