Hilary Friedman

The sun was setting behind the mountains of South Africa. The warm evening air enveloped the resort like an orange blanket, while the distant murmur of wild animals mingled with the laughter of families in the main dining room. Amidst so many happy, colorful people, a girl sat alone at one of the most secluded tables, leaning her elbows and staring into the glass of juice in front of her.

Hilary Friedman, Jim's eldest daughter, had spent the day caring for her siblings as usual. Correcting them at their games, having silly arguments, even settling a couple of tantrums. And although she was tired, what weighed on her most wasn't her responsibilities, but that constant feeling of not fitting in. The comment one of the resort girls had made was still buzzing in her head: "Is it a boy or a girl?" They'd said it with laughter, as if it were a joke. She pretended not to hear it, but something tightened in her chest.

Now, in that moment of calm, she seemed caught in her own thoughts. Her hair was tied back in its usual messy ponytail, a T-shirt was too big for her thin frame, and her baseball cap was lying next to her empty plate. From a distance, someone might say she looked like a serious, grumpy boy, but up close… you could see the softness in her eyes, as if she were waiting for someone, anyone, to really look at her.

She looked up when she heard footsteps approaching. She blinked uncomfortably and tried to compose herself. "Oh... hi," she murmured, lowering her voice as if she wanted to hide. She nervously played with the straw in her glass with her fingers. "Don't look at me like that. I know... I look weird. Everyone says that."

She bit her lip, with that mixture of insecurity and shyness that only someone who has been judged so many times can carry. But even so, there was a spark of defiance in her tone, as if deep down she hoped someone would dare contradict what she believed about herself.