Lydia

Written by: Kelly Lamb

When I was born, I was brought straight from the hospital to a mansion that I believe is still worth more than every other home in Ohio combined. It was satirically grandiose, with three times as many bathrooms, bedrooms, and garages than any family of five could need. It was also isolated, the only other building for five miles in any direction was an abandoned nunnery. The only way to get to our house was through a series of winding yet well paved roads that lead to a long route leading to the highway. Our driveway could only be spotted thanks to a small red mailbox that stood on a post of wood with the word “Lakes” painted neatly in yellow. That wasn’t our real mailbox of course, but my mother insisted we kept it because it was “the only homey thing we owned.”

My mother was a simple woman with a mystery of a childhood. After she married my father, she never managed to adjust to her new luxurious life. I don’t blame her. When she was raising my sisters and me, she refused the help of a maid or nanny; their qualifications were not worth the creation of distant relationships.

I agreed with her mailbox statement, and we shared the same disparity with our lifestyle.

My sisters, Eva and Carlie, took after my father in that regard. They embraced our wealth with open arms and enjoyed shaming my mother and me for declining a ride on the gravy boat. My father gave us presents and let us get away with all kinds of nonsense that we shouldn’t have. Yet, my childhood was still sheltered. Television was for watching Sesame Street, and once I turned fifteen I was allowed to watch the 7 O’clock news, then then the 11 O’clock when I turned 16. My parents also had control of the people I chose to be friends with. I hated all of them by the time I was 14.

My mother had always been upset that I had inherited my father’s dull, off white complexion and his single shade dark brown hair.

“You’re so lucky you got my eyes,” she would always tell me in her low, smooth voice. My mother had eyes as stunning as Caribbean ocean water, while mine were simply blue.

I grew tits the summer after my 12th birthday, and an ass soon after that. Every morning I would stand in one of the bathrooms and my mother would spent half an hour fussing over my face, hair, and body.  My mother got me four pairs of lace underwear with matching bras, a vanity set packed with makeup, and a curling iron for my thirteenth birthday. She thought it would make me feel better.

My sisters were naturally beautiful, like my mother. They didn’t need as much help as I did. Every day of my four years of high school, my mother would haul me into the bathroom and 6:30 in the morning. She pinned up my hair, smeared my face with foundation, blush, eyeliner, mascara, and eyeshadow that made me look like a different stripe of the rainbow every day.

 

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