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𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐀𝐍, 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟓
I was six, just starting first grade, and the sky seemed a shade grayer than usual. The words the other kids spat out stuck to me like dirty labels I couldn't peel off.
"Can't read," they declared, as if those two words could define my existence.
I could see the letters, but they danced in front of me like stars refusing to form a constellation.
"You can't even read your own name," I heard them mock. Each word was another drop of poison seeping into my young heart.
The other children? They were laughing. Not audibly, perhaps, but in a language I had come to understand: the language of exclusion.
I couldn't take it anymore, I had to escape.
No explanation, no goodbyes, leaving behind the teachers, the students and their cruel comments.
I made my way to this little playground near Central Park, my sanctuary. Everyone was welcome here, even lonely souls like me.
My parents, Derek and Addison, received calls from the school, calls of palpable desperation.
"Missy's gone," they relayed, as if I were a misplaced object, not a girl with a heart that beats too fast and a mind that thought too much.
But they find me. They always do.
On the swing, eyes closed, tears streaming, far away from the bitter reality of life.
Mommy hugs me, holding me tight as if she could protect me from the world.
Daddy looks at me, and for a moment, I am not the misbehaving kid, not the loser, not the outcast.
I am just Missy, their daughter.
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