“Listen, son, I wanted to show you something,” my dad said, walking into my room with some sort of book.
What could that be? I’ve never seen it before.
“What is it?” I asked curiously.
“It’s an album of our family starting from your great-grandmother, the one you asked about,” he said, opening it up to the first page. On the page, I could see a photograph of her from 1931 and her signature below it, which read Delilah Winston Andrews. She had the prettiest signature I had ever seen; this is what it looked like ?ℯ????? ?????ℴ? ????ℯ??. Real posh, am I right?
“Woah, wasn’t she like fifteen back then? That’s how old I am,” I said before realizing how stupid of a mistake I had made.
“I know you can’t wait to be older, but you’re not quite there yet,” he said, laughing at my gaffe.
I
