Georgo's baker's dozen
I have twelve siblings; all girls. My father had the bright idea to have all their names start with the letter ‘e’. Elizabeth is the eldest. Then there is me: George. I’m the youngest daughter and for some confounded reasoning, my parents deviated from the set pattern.
I grew up believing that I’m special; set apart from the maddening crowd (so to speak). Until my mother’s parting when I found a letter addressed to her one sister which she never posted, among her belongings. I was idly flipping through old report cards, dog-eared photographs of mostly unknown family members, and a bill for a wedding ring resized at the local jewelers when I happened upon this letter.
I had to read it a number of times to let the full import of it sink in. Within a space of a few minutes, my whole world turned upside down.
Mum had been having affairs throughout their marriage and the naming of the daughters was Dad’s way of cocking a snoot at his very fertile wife. Early on in their marriage, Dad had realized that he couldn’t father children. He turned a blind eye to Mum’s shenanigans – he came from a large family and dearly wanted one himself. Medical science, as it was at the time, did not hold out much hope of him overcoming his problem.
Until the day that I was born. You see: I have red hair and blue eyes, just like my Dad. DNA testing was then still in its infancy, and the family doctor was not too keen to have the necessary lab tests done, but Dad persisted. Dad was over the moon to learn that I was indeed the fruit of his loins.
I will forever cherish the Anglicised name that I share with my Dad.
THE END
[Micro fiction - 300 words]
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