When I was five, I asked my mom for a sister.
My brother looked up from our dinosaur battle.
He scoffed, attacked my brontosaurus.
At seven, I asked again. “I have nobody to play with.”
“Not every day.”
At nine, I locked myself away, befriended Hermione, Matilda, brunettes with wild thoughts, piles of books.
When I was ten, my sister was born. I was too old to play.
When I was eight, my mother cried in the bathroom, soaking blood with towels, crying because she’d ruined two and failed to give me what I asked.