For the longest time, whenever my mother would dream of a baby, she’d call me to talk about my future children. She’d describe in vivid details the child’s mix of features, curly hair, fat cheeks. If she saw a blonde baby she’d ask if I was dating una rubia, or someone possessing whatever other characteristics she knew didn’t exist in me. The answer was a resounding no. No, I wasn’t dating una rubia. No, I wasn’t even thinking about kids.

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