A Letter to My Daughter Who Will Never Read
Dear Daughter,
Remember when you were five, we had just moved from Chicago to the Detroit area during a gray January. In that ice cream shop, you announced you wanted to be on the Bozo show and play the grand prize game. A woman, a stranger, informed you that you would have to go to Chicago to do that. After we settled into the plastic seats at a table with our ice cream, you looked up at me, your eyes wide, and declared “I am going to always live with you.”
A surge of love and protectionism coursed through me as I replied to you, “You will get married and will want to live with your husband.”
You said, “He will have to live with us.”
Remember when I picked you up from the floor and drove you to the emergency room for a broken arm after jumping from the top shelf of the linen closet at six?
I asked you what did you think of the male doctor.
You responded, “I thought he was the nurse.”
I wanted you to have the opportunity to imagine becoming a doctor, unlike I was told that women could not be doctors, but only nurses.
Remember when I told you to tell me if anyone ever touched you where your bathing suit covers? Even if they say they will hurt me or you. You promised to tell me. I was your…