A letter to my daughter
I just trimmed your bangs last week. Now your eyes are uncovered and I can see midnight within them.
At two years old, your thin, almond shaped eyes have seen two continents, two countries, and three homes. They are already a familiar with loss, but know the hope of a new morning. They wear the squint that laughter brings. And while it’s taken time—and tears—since your adoption seven months ago, they know that love can grow yet again.
My resilient girl, what will your eyes encounter as the days continue to pile? Everyday, I catch a little more confidence in your gaze. For now, the magazines at the checkout aisle are a game: you try to yank them down, giggling, while I put them back and try to pay for our groceries. Those pictures are nothing more to you—just a game. My beautiful girl, you don’t yet know how they want to confuse you, selling you half-truths and subtle lies. Will you notice someday that none of the women on those magazines have the same eyes as you?
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