Fool's Paradise

Around 1996 My parents decided that 

they wanted another child. 

I imagine my mother on the verge of tears,

explaining to my father how

all she ever wanted was a daughter.

My father responding with a simple, 

“Me too honey” 

Around 1967 My father escaped from Egypt. 

The Six Day War broke apart families,

stole children’s freedom, and stripped 

the light from my father’s eyes. All he 

wanted after the war was to build a family with 

so much love. The type of love that would allow him to forget about the pains of his past. 

Around 1966 My mother was selling 

lemonade on the small streets of Buffalo.  

She acquired a liking for music, medicine 

and literature. The only hardships she 

was ever faced with was her family’s struggle 

for money, which soon prevented her from 

attending the Ivy’s she had been accepted to.

Around 1993 My father laid eyes on my mother 

in a Synagogue in Philadelphia. Neither knew how to 

communicate through the language barrier, but apparently 

 “It wasn't about the language.” Later that year, they

were married. First, a big brown eyed boy joined the family. 

A year and a half later, another boy, with slightly smaller eyes, 

but almost identical to the first. My father’s wish was only partly

coming true. He had a family, but he could not stop the nightmares,

which played for him each memory in intricate detail. 

Around the end of 1997 I was born. The 

precious, pink princess that both my parents 

longed for. I was finally tangible, and not a figment 

of their imagination. I was small, 

delicate, and beautiful. 

I was theirs. 

Around 2001 I played in my first soccer game. 

From the moment I touched the sole of 

my foot to the ball, I knew that I would 

be playing that sport until the end of my existence. 

With worried eyes, and heavy hearts, my 

parents drove me to my games. Where was their

delicate, little princess? I was slipping away. 

Around 2012 I felt the wrath of my parent’s criticism. 

I needed to involve myself in activities that would make 

me more “presentable,” more “relatable.” According 

to my father, I was unladylike. He said, “In Egypt, women 

didn't play sports.” And for my mother, she wanted me

to fit all of the expectations she had set for me before I 

was born. Together, it felt like hate, rather than concern. 

Around 2015 I had my heart broken for the first time.
No food would settle in my stomach 

no comedy would make me laugh. My brothers carried

me through my heartache. They were my crutches, my 

hope. And soccer was my reason to stay sane. When I
played, nothing outside that field mattered. But my 

parents watched as I desiccated. They told me 

it was my fault. They warned me after all. I 

should have been better at preserving the

people I loved in my life. I should stop 

trying to be someone that I am not. 

Around 2016 I was convinced it was my problem. 

It was a new year, and I still felt so lonely. My heart 

was worn out. I felt numb. Maybe there 

was something wrong with me. Were my parents right?

Was I not being true to myself? If only I recognized that 

the faults lied with them, not me. 

Around 2017 I learned that my parents were having issues 

in their marriage. It will get better, I can fix them, I repeated 

to myself. But I was the root of their problem. I was the one

causing them sorrow. I was not delicate. I was not “perfect 

and pink.” I was just me. 

Around 2018 I grew the strength to tell my parents 

all of the ways in which they had hurt me.

I said, “I cannot mend all of your scars Daddy. 

I cannot live up to expectations set not for 

me, but for your idea of me, momma.” I do 

wish the conversation ended like those

shown on tv, where I am at last comforted, and 

accepted for who I am. Although, that night, I made a

vow to myself to be that delicate, pink princess, despite 

my craving for a more memorable life.