I felt like a princess.

When you’re only eight years old, it doesn’t take much. Just putting on the white dress, the veil, and holding onto the rosary made me feel special before we even stepped into the church.

The climax of my First Communion day, was, however, not the cardboard-flavored wafer, but the party. Kids will do nearly anything for a party, and I was no exception. Aunts and uncles came, all bringing religious type gifts: figurines, chalices, the like.

I’ll never know just what provoked it. As I was lying in bed, my father came into my room in a fury, smashing all the beautiful figurines to the floor. Long ago, I had learned to cope when he got this way – I stayed very still and just watched, even as a piece of glass grazed my face, leaving a thin red line.

The pieces sparkled, catching the light, and I imagined them as fallen stars, here just for me.

Later, he would say he was sorry.
He would say he’d do better.
And just as any little girl would, I forgave him.

But my pretty day was ruined.