was an only child for the first nine years of my life, until my brother was born. Even then a newborn wasn’t much use to a nine-year-old girl, especially not one who truly believed she was an adult trapped in a child’s body. Which is to say I was alone and predisposed to fantasy. Girls of that nature tend to build complex internal worlds that they proceed to drape like a blanket over the world around them. Adults who don’t understand this disposition tend to call it melodramatic. But I resented that word, which implied that my version of reality couldn’t be trusted. I was sure I was simply
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