People want to know if I am an only child.
“You don’t have any brothers or sisters do you?”
They act surprised when I tell them I have two. Brothers. Younger brothers.
“Oh. Thought you were an only child.”
“I was.”
When you come home from kindergarden on a crisp October day, expecing the usual saltine cracker-brown sugar broiled snack but there’s a baby in the living room, something snaps.
My mother never wore maternity clothes. Nobody knew she was pregnant. In fact, I was discouraged from uttering the word ‘pregnant’. Grandmother told me another way of describing the condition: “She took seriously what was poked at her in fun.”
I think of myself as an only child. There is not another living soul like my on the planet.
I’m the ONLY me.