They Recalled Their Bespoke Child

Summary

On my eighteenth birthday, my family played an after-dinner parlor game: rate your children on a scale of one to ten.

When it came to my parents’ turn, I discreetly smoothed the pleats of my dress under the table, my knuckles white in my lap.

My mother couldn't stand tears, so when I broke my leg at seven, I bit the inside of my cheek until it bled, never shedding a single drop. My father demanded relentless excellence, so from middle school through senior year, my name never slipped from the top of the honor roll.