She was the lucky girl, the good girl, the happiness and sunshine girl. Her bright curls and her light smile and her sparkle voice – a bubbling brook, a tinkling stream, the voice of a promise of something better. Something exciting, the whisper in the wind as you stare over a bridge at the city lights in the dark. That wind. The telling of something fantastic coming your way. That was her.
Good luck charm, her father called her. Apple of my eye. Little poppet. Pet her head. When she got too old for that it was in a knowing glance.
Sunshine smiles, her mother said. Her mother sang her name in a million variations.
Gorgeous girl. Laughing girl. Girl with all the ideas.
Happy girl, smart girl, girl with all the talents.
Girl who opened her mouth and was listened to. Who asked and was given. Who glanced and was warmed to. Girl with all the gifts.
And they said ‘Everybody likes you’, and they said, ‘everybody thinks you’re great.’
So it became that it was to everybody she looked for her self worth. Not within herself.