They said I looked like Grandma, red hair and all. Named me after her, Sarah Joy. I don’t remember her. There’s a baby picture of me on her lap. She died of cancer later that year. Stories made her out to be perfect.
I rushed home after school and straight to my room. Dropped on my bed as tears overwhelmed me. Momma knocked and opened the door.
“What’s the matter, honey?”
Words gurgled through my crying, “Oh, Momma, I’m pregnant.”
“Don’t worry about that, dear. How do you think I got here?”
Sixteen and pregnant. Turns out it’s a family tradition.
striking. I like it very much!ReplyDelete
It's called "Intergenerational Transmission" in the therapy field :-)ReplyDelete