My Sunday best shoes made polite clicking noises on the brick streets as I resolutely walked away. away from mother. away from the endless lectures which were, of course followed by being rendered invisible by the baby sister adoration society. I was just seven and had been cast aside. I stopped just for a moment, because the pain of being cast aside was real pain, it made me hurt in the pit of my stomach, and for a moment the world did a full turn around me.
As I righted myself I watched the small Sunday market, about six stands. Each one heavy decorated with paper flowers and flags. Families walking through, stopping to chat, children with hands full of sugary treats. The smell of waffles so strong you could actually taste them. I inhaled, deeply, and again. I had to stop thinking about what it would be like to be someone else’s daughter. Surely even children stolen by gypsies would just occasionally be bought a waffle at the market on a Sunday after Mass. I’d be happy of they’d just take me to Mass.
