Her eyes follow me even when she isn’t in the room. I swore I’d never live under her shadow again. Then she reached one dated the year she was born. The handwriting was uneven, as if written quickly, almost in panic. Miriam came into the world today. My wife smiled and said she has my mother’s eyes. I said nothing. I see it too.
The journal slipped in her lap, and she pressed her hands against her face. So that was it — the reason for every clipped word, every sharp look, every omission. She hadn’t been unwanted for who she was, but for who she resembled. She had spent her life paying for a resemblance she could never change.