Growing up, I always knew something was off. We didnt pray or have "family home evenings" and we certainly weren't included in block parties. Our family was different, sure. I was scolded by neighbors for displaying my shoulders and was constantly interrogated about my bruises. Excuse me if I resemble a peach. Despite the crude remarks and concerning looks, I never considered myself to be anything other than normal. Kids would ask me why my family is an assortment of colors. Similar to a fruit basket. Yes, my sister is blonde and yes she has blue eyes. No, neither of my parents do. My brother is not Hispanic, and no, neither am I. Not that its any of your business. They call it a broken home but it never seemed broken. My brothers got two Christmases and my sister got yearly vacations so how do you call that damaged? It wasn't until later that I learned where that phrase came from. My brothers dad was always a kind man and he was nice enough to teach me the effects drugs have on a marriage. And he showed me that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. My sister, on the other hand never knew her father and her mother was just a story. Though all her life, she saw the man that provided her shelter as the man that provided her life but that was false interpretation. Her fair skin wasnt a recessive gene. The figure I call dad turned out to be great with fiction and I wish he still was. Because the girl that shared the same room as me doesnt share the same blood and you didn't care enough to share that with us. I still love her, of course. I'm just saying, it would've been nice to know. I may not know her last name but it seems to me, the only stranger is you. It wasn't right of your wife to take a bite off the forbidden fruit but don't you know that lying is sinning too? Who are you to tell me how to live righteously when my entire life wasn't right? You always told me to see you as I see god but I never told you that I don't like religion. I'm not too bad with fiction either. I guess I got that from you.