‘Nineteen, ninety-five,’ the day on the back of the photograph of five-year-old me staring back at me with sad blue eyes. Growing up as a child I thought myself rather ugly with my messy blond hair that didn’t want to behave, and freckles splashed across my face. I remember the date on the back of the photograph written in my father’s handwriting as if it was yesterday.
“We promise that we will be right back to come to get you guys,” my father promised. It won’t be the first empty promise my parents make to the three of us; my younger sister by a year, that had dark hair and dark brown eyes like my father, myself that looked like my mother, only she had dark green eyes, and my brother that was a year older than me that also looked like my father.