Tania Lorena Rivera

“What’s that on your nose?” said the stranger. Instinctively, my right hand flew to the right side of my nasal bone where my scar was. My cheeks burned, my throat knotted, and I gave them the only answer I could give them as a child. I smiled nervously, and I looked to my parents for guidance. They answered by explaining what had happened to me one fateful morning when I was three years old.

It was my mother’s first day back at work since she decided to become a mom. She hired a babysitter for the day, dropped my brother off at kindergarten, and left for work. The young woman she left me with was instructed in my daily routine. And that included a morning trip to the store right across the street where I would present money, and the lovely lady behind the counter would give me pastries. It was my big girl chore, and I loved to do it according to my mother. The distance between my front door and the store was just a few meters apart. The babysitter gave me my money and proceeded to sit down on the steps of our doorway and watch me run across the street to get my daily bread.