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I couldn’t let it pass without at least acknowledging it. Excerpt from last year:

Did ya’ll know that Dec 17th was my due date? I was 9 days late. On Dec 17th, Mama would always remind me that “Sarah, this was supposed to be your birthday.” And she would talk about 25 or 27 or 29 years ago, when she was waddling about with her first baby inside her, so so ecstatically happy, even as she remembers it. She talked about how I took forever to get here, but she’s never told me the details and I never asked. Now I’ll never know. She would tell me every year that when she saw me, I was the most beautiful, perfect thing she had ever seen… and that even though there was no such thing as a ultrasound back then, she never doubted that I would be a baby girl named Sarah. I remember once that I was upset about Daddy – just another of the countless fights that Daddy and I had during my childhood, and I cried to Mama that I knew that Daddy had wanted me to be a boy, and that he was disappointed in me from the moment that I was born. And Mama rummaged through a box of things that she had tucked away under the bed, and gave me a tiny pink outfit, and told me the story of Daddy coming home from Pratt-Reid right after they found out they were pregnant, and saying “I bought this for our baby.” That was the only gift that he ever bought me by himself – and she had packed it away almost like she knew that one day I would need that little outfit to reassure me that Daddy did love me after all.

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