A Sunday Story About Having One Eye

Your parents describe your birth as the happiest moment of their lives, followed immediately by the saddest. Your mother holds you and is smiling and happy and your father fawns over you and kisses her on her forehead and she presses your body into her chest and looks down at you and realizes something is wrong. Your eyes are not the same. One is blue, the other is grey. One is hiding under a partially opened eye-lid; the other is extending far beyond it, like a potato exploding out of an egg cup. Suddenly, the doctors are in the room and they take you and rush you out. And when they come back they tell your parents that they don’t know what’s wrong, but something is wrong. There will be tests, there will be lots of tests. Your parents sob. Your father cradles you and tells you that no matter what the tests say, he’ll take care of you forever.

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