We’re all small and clueless, aren’t we? What if we could start from the beginning—when your mother met your father, they had two kids before you were born, and decided three would be enough: an older brother to protect you and an older sister who shared her toys and stood up for you once you could defend yourself or make up your own words.
I had an amazing childhood. I loved visiting my late grandma’s cottage, playing with our tiny, god-like dog, and the cow my godmother, Marie, gave me for my fourth birthday. I never met anyone as beautiful as her. She’ll always stay beautiful in my eyes, even though death separated us. Every time I look at my mom’s face, I see her, which feels strange because I’m still mourning the loss of her.
My late grandma was my role model. I’d never seen a woman so full of joy, even though she carried so much darkness within her. I guess that’s why my mom sees her every time she looks at me.
I started learning about sirens, old spirituality, and things that others might find strange while staying with my grandma. I began to feel the trees breathe when I stood before them, acknowledging their presence. I’m sure that, at some point, being near that forest, the trees began to understand and protect me. It might sound crazy to others, but to me, it felt comforting, even normal.
The hibiscus by the house—how their red petals became brighter in the sunlight—she would pick one and tuck it behind my left ear, calling me "pretty" while I stood there in awe.
I want nothing more than to go back to that grey house, to cuddle with my grandma on a rainy night, to laugh together in the quiet of the evening. To feel that love, to feel protected.
But nothing lasts forever. Eventually, I had to return home, far away from her, and once again, I was left alone—without the trees to talk to, the flowers to admire, or someone to call me "pretty." I knew I was never a burden like my older siblings. I was the quiet one, the one they never had to worry about because I was the person stuck in a book or lost in a corner, daydreaming or just lost in my own thoughts.
I’ve always loved those quiet moments, but I also wanted them to worry about me. I wanted them to punish me for being too quiet, or too shy. While everyone else was living, I was dreaming. While others got compliments for their looks, I received compliments for being "different." And honestly, I never minded it. I loved being different. I didn’t want people to have what I had or think the way I think. I guess being "weird" has its own benefits.
My mother—my heart—looked at me and said I was a monster. She was right, but it still hurts. After I faked being sick and threw a tantrum just to get her to look at me, or even care for me for just a second, she still saw me like that. My mother wasn’t distant by choice—she was blinded by love and by the infidelity of my father. A fool, a cretin of a man, but still, he is my father.
While all of this was happening behind the scenes, I met my first best friend, Paola. I remember my mom telling me the story of how we walked to school together for the first time. I went through that gate without crying, just offering a look—one that said, I’ve got this, as always. Paola was, and still is, my sunshine. She was so bright, and I was always too shy to look at her for too long because she was so beautiful and small. If I didn’t have her with me, I always felt lost.
I remember one time I had a crush on three boys at the same time, and she helped me get their attention, even though deep down I just wanted her by my side. I got into a fight with a boy who had a crush on her and asked me to help him. I didn’t want anyone else to have her—not when I finally had something that was just for me.
But I will never get the chance to be a girl with you again, Lola, because we got separated. And I don’t think you remember me anymore. I wish I had the chance to say goodbye, to hold you, and assure you that I would come back and bring you with me.
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