I bought my daughter a bicycle with my first bonus. Dad sl;ap;ped her, took it, and gave it to my nephew. “Trash don’t deserve good things”, they said. They didn’t expect me to make them beg for mercy.

I still remember the precise shade of blue. It wasn’t just a color; it was an emotion. It was the electric, vibrating hue of a summer sky just before a storm breaks the heat. To my daughter, Emma, it was magic. To me, it was the first tangible proof that the curse of my lineage could be broken.

We were standing outside Miller’s Cycle & Sport, our breath fogging the plate glass window against the chill of a late October morning. Emma, nine years old with hair the color of spun gold and eyes that held too much worry for her age, pressed her nose against the pane.