Bia

I couldn’t keep my eyes off her hair. Ivy’s blond hair. The mane of hair with black tips that slowly faded into her almost-white strands.

Wow.

My hair seemed dull in comparison. Too dark, too long, too wavy. I wanted to cut it all off and give it to someone else. I didn’t deserve my hair.

I deserved nothing.

When I first asked Mom about my father, she told me I had none. I told her that my teacher said everyone was made from a mommy and a daddy, and my mother cursed my teacher’s name right in front of me.

It was another couple of weeks before she’d give me the next answer.

She told me my dad was killed before I was born. She said he loved me, but he had to die because that’s what fate intended. I asked if I’d see him in Heaven, and she told me I shouldn’t believe in fairy tales.

Then she told me the truth.

My father ran away when he heard I was pregnant. He wanted nothing to do with me. For an eight year old, this is hard to take. And my mom offered no comfort. All she said was, “I dealt with it. You should too.”