uring to its perceived exquisiteness.
“Sorry. I can’t. She looks just like you. It would be like throwing you away.”
“But it is not me. You have me. You know that, right?” I spoke slowly and carefully, watching her sinking face so as to pinpoint the moment she understood what I was trying to say. I found it, a seemingly brief invasion she blinked away.
"What color did you get?" Mom asked hovering over me. Her voice echoed in the newly empty room.
I popped the lid off the paint can with a knife, revealing a pale, creamy yellow puddle underneath. I gasped. It had exceeded my expectations. My head swam in it, awestruck, discovering its slightest touches of gold and lemon muted down to an almost custard color. I applauded excitedly and smiled toward mom, inviting her opinion. Mom raised her eyebrows and put on her tightest smile. I bit.
"What’s wrong with it?" I asked.
"Babies cry more in yellow bedrooms," she answered matter-of-factly.
"It's the happiest color," I argued, pouring paint into the tray.
"Happiness is subjective.”
I pushed some paint onto a roller and pointed it at her, insisting "Smiley faces are yellow. You gonna argue with smiley faces?"