At eight years of age, my biggest problem should have been deflecting the names of Bucky Beaver and Nerd. My teeth protruded from my lips, my bangs hung in my eyes, and my bobby socks sagged at my ankles. What place do saggy socks have in the mind of a child when my parents sit me down one day after school and tell me, “We aren’t your parents’? Thinking I didn’t hear them right, they said it again. “We aren’t your real parents, and you have a sister.” Did I hear right? (What was wrong with my ears?) When they said I had a sister living across town, the words fell around me like shards of glass hitting the floor at once. The blood drained from my face as my hands went over my ears and I shut my eyes. Pretend not to hear, to see, and when I take my hands away, it won’t be real, I thought.
