Sunday, March 17, 2013

What matters


“Sweetheart, there's something I have to tell you."

The mom was wearing a burgundy paisley dress that fell to about mid-calf-length. The sleeves were three-quarter-length, so they stopped right at about halfway down her forearm. The dress was made of a stiff sort of cotton, or maybe a cotton blend. It had a little rounded collar, what you might call a Peter Pan collar if you were writing a description of the dress for a catalog.

“Oookay, shoot.”

The daughter was wearing low-rise blue jeans that flared out at the bottoms of the legs and had a smattering of silver studs decorating the pockets. At the store where she’d bought them, the style was called “Diva.” She was also wearing a little pink T-shirt. You might call it a baby tee if you were writing a blurb in a teen magazine.

“Honey, I’m just going to say this. You’re adopted.”

The mom was wearing loafers with a low, chunky heel. The loafers were brown leather, from the Stride Rite store, bought for their comfort. They were sensible shoes. The mom was also wearing pantyhose; on the box, it said the color was “nude,” a sort of suntan brown.

“Mom… what…”

The daughter was wearing white sneakers with thick soles, almost like platform shoes, trendy among her peers at her junior-high school.

“Dad and I were friends with your real mother. We are friends with your real mother. She’s someone you know… someone you know quite well.”

The mom wore her shoulder-length medium-brown hair in a low ponytail. She wore glasses with discreet rims, so that you mostly just saw the glass lenses, which were reflection-proof, so you almost didn’t see the lenses either.

“Who is she?”

The daughter had purple polish on her nails, and it was chipped. Her brown hair was long; she was growing out her bangs. Her T-shirt said “Boy Magnet” on it.

“She’s—"

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