“You *******!” Flung the lady on the soap opera
while my mother painted on her lipstick. She
turned the volume down. I asked my mother
what a ******* is. She said it’s someone
whose parents are not married. I asked her
if that made me a *******. She said it’s not
a nice word. “But I am one.” She said women
can’t be *******. What does that make me? For
every genealogy assignment in elementary
science class, when we listed inherited traits,
I always left mine blank. A piece of white
papered shame, the proof that my father left
my mother. The proof that I am a ******* mistake.
One day, I want to meet the man who walked
away and fill in my blank paper with his passed
down traits. One day, I want to meet the woman
who I must have made so afraid. One day, I want
to prove that I am worth the trouble. The malicious,
******* part wants to make them regret walking
away.