Today, April 15, is the day I was supposed to be born. My mother's full-term due date—which I audaciously ignored, debuting more than two months early. Every year on this date, I get philosophical. I wonder who I might have been. If I would be "me" at all.
Would I be healthy? Would I be neurotypical? Would my teeth be straight, my vision 20/20? My skin smooth and one consistent shade? Would I be a doctor, lawyer, or engineer? The best daughter. The functional friend. Someone capable of love who is loved in return? Would I have a spouse by now? Children? Pets?
It's my own Sliding Doors story. My own perpetual "What If?" What would have happened if I'd stayed inside a little longer? If I hadn't come out half-baked?
Would I be happier? I think that's the biggest question. Would I be whole? Would I have escaped some of the traps I fell—and jumped—into these past 42 years?
I don't know. I wish I had answers. Instead, all I have is this day. Maybe it's fitting that it's Tax Day, too. Because my memory pays a tax to that person I never became.
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