The labels.

Is that your Mom?

It was never the question really…it was the look on her face. 

You and your Mom can have a seat here.

Can we? Well, thanks, but, she is NOT my mother! 

We are four years apart!  Sometimes I wanted to scream at them. 


These are my, “DAUW-GH-TERS”. 

Is that your son? 

God, it was confusing.  Adults…

What do they mean?  Are they stupid?

“SHE HAS BOOBS!” I wanted to yell.

I never did.  Not once.


It evolved. 

No longer perceived to be of the male gender, she graduated quickly to being a senior citizen. 

The first few times it happened I pretended it didn’t, almost as well as she did.

 I quickly learned to be pro-active, as my Mother had before me. 

 “This is my SISTER and we would like….”

Echos of ‘these are my DAUW-GH-TERS…’

It was futile.  She heard them. She felt their words.  Their words hurt. 



It was years before we joked about it. 

I tried to make the ignorant people absorb the brunt of the joke but she and I both knew she owned the role.  

‘The girls’, for definition. 

‘The girls’, for clarification. 

‘The girls’, for reference. 

‘The girls’, for affection. 

Our identities amalgamated into one. 

It was a prerequisite for the future existence of the dynamic duo. Image


About inevertoldher

I love my kids, my husband, my four cats and my sister...not necessarily in that order. Writing, singing (poorly but loudly) and laughing keep me happy. When I eat well, exercise and post daily...I am at my best.
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