Birth

Life used to be good.
I would jump out of bed every morning, fresh as a lark. I would bike to my neighborhood elementary school, playing with my classmates, laughing, joking, making new friends.
I would reach home around 3pm, finish my homework, play my favorite games on my computer, doing everything I could possibly desire in life.
Every evening, my father would arrive back from work, a benign smile on his face, and I would race up to him, leaping up and feeling his strong arms embrace and twirl me around.
My mother would whip up a splendid dinner of meat and the freshest vegetables you could get. Occasionally, she would hide sweet, dainty treats in the food; perhaps it was impaled in the chicken, or maybe subtly arranged alongside the celery. …