From Broken Roots
Sadly, my face is a reflection of two people who never loved each other. I carry their resentment in the shape of my eyes, the angles of my cheekbones, the curve of my mouth, features passed down like unwanted heirlooms. I wonder if they ever looked at me and saw pieces of each other, if my existence was a constant reminder of a love that never was, or if they looked past me, pretending that I was just an unfortunate accident of fate. Most people are born from love, wrapped in warmth before taking their first breath. Others, like me, are born from silence, from obligation, from the bitter aftertaste of choices made too young or too recklessly. And when you grow up as proof of something broken, you learn to carry its weight without being asked. It settles into you, molding not only the contours of your identity but the very lens through which you perceive the world. For if the two who gave life to you could not evoke even the faintest trace of love for one another, then what precisely a...