The little girl talked too much. That’s what teachers said about her. On the first day of class, they moved her to the front of the room because of this.
It wasn’t that she wouldn’t stop talking. It was that she couldn’t. It was involuntary. A reflex. A superpower.
Her smile is another of her gifts. It’s a quirky smile passed down from her mother. Her mother had a lazy eye and saw double. Whenever her mother smiled for cameras, she tilted her head to correct her vision.
The little girl picked up this habit. Today, she can’t smile without leaning left.
She joined the workforce at age twelve, waiting tables. By her teenage years, she worked at a nursing home.
In high school, she met this fella. He was wild, he liked to party. His major hobbies included Budweiser and ice cream. And she loved him.
They would marry. And they would make a life for themselves. The young man would work labor jobs until he became a steelworker. She too, would put in long hours
to pay bills.
In her early twenties, she was fed up with small paychecks. She wanted to go to school. It was an outlandish idea, but she enrolled anyway.
She passed her classes with flying colors. And when she finished her degree, she decided she wasn’t finished.
“I wanna go into the medical field,” she told her husband.
“Do what?” he said.
She took classes, but they were hard, and demanding, and expensive. The science courses were torture. So, she used her superpower. She talked. She made conversation with the smart students and the teachers. They helped her through. In a few years, she was a therapist. Bona fide.
Her husband was on the front row of her graduation, clapping hard.
By thirty, she tried to get pregnant. But no luck. After several failed attempts and miscarriages, doctors told her it would be…