I use to tell myself a little story, about how I really married the wrong the brother. How I met the right brother too late. How if only I had patience, like mother told me to, I would have had the right brother and life would have been sailing off into the sunset.

But instead I saw a vision of almost perfection and, as I had taught myself to believe, perfection doesn’t exist, so I grabbed with two hands this possibility of what my life could be like!

I wanted yellow and I got beige.

I wanted an apple and bit into a pear.

I was almost there.

It was almost right,

And that was enough for me to believe, to give up the fight.

I had a dream of what my life could be like,

A dream I dreamt whilst others whispered white wedding dresses and ponies to themselves in the darkness of night.

I dreamed of adventures in far off lands,

Of pursuits, of hidden treasure and intellectual hands,

Covering my body and leading me to places my mind feared to go.

I saw him hand me these dreams and I saw that he could provide them all.

But I forgot to take into consideration his terrible personality.

And so, if I had been the good daughter my mother wanted me to be, one of patience and virtue, of all the right dreams, I would have got the right brother.

And that’s the little story I use to tell myself.

The story I will tell you. And the story I will always tell my mother.

But.

I wanted yellow but I chose beige