It should have been a happy day. Cruella had won first place in a citywide writing competition with an essay about gratitude toward her mother. As her parent, I was invited to represent the families and go onstage to share my “parenting experience.”
When I stepped up to the podium, I was still smiling.
But that smile froze the moment I read the first line aloud.
“My mom loves dyeing her hair in all kinds of colors. Not long ago, she dyed it brunette again.”
Instinctively, I reached up and touched my hair.
Black. I had never dyed it. I tried to calm myself. Maybe children exaggerate.
But then came the second sentence.
“My mom loves wearing high heels. She looks especially beautiful when she walks.”
I don’t own a single pair of high heels. I gave them up completely after getting pregnant.
A sense of unease crept in, but I forced myself to continue.
“My mom isn’t very tall. She has a heart-shaped face and doe eyes.”
My throat tightened. I couldn’t go on.
I’m 5’7”, broad-shouldered, with a round face.
Nothing in her description matched me.
A parent suddenly spoke up from the audience.