When I was five, I asked my mom why I didn’t look like anyone else. In our small, isolated town deep in the mountains, everyone had dark hair and dark eyes. Mine was the color of straw. My mother looked at me, her face blank. She didn’t say a word. She just picked up a pair of scissors and shaved my head until it was bare. From then on, I was the only bald kid in town. Two weeks later, I found a slip of paper she’d hidden in the woodpile behind our shack. It had a phone number on it. Barefoot, I ran to the payphone at the town’s only gas station and dialed. That night, a procession of sleek, black cars rolled down our dirt road, their headlights cutting through the darkness. Policemen slammed the man I called ‘Dad’ to the ground. My mother, sobbing, fell into the arms of a man in a clean, sharp suit. They were taking her away. I just stood there, frozen. “Momma,” I whispered to the empty space. “You said if I made the call, you’d kiss me.” 1 It was chaos, but all I could see was my mother. She was being held up by the man in the suit, looking so fragile, like a single gust of wind could shatter her. I instinctively ran toward her, reaching out to grab the edge of her dress. My hand hadn’t even touched the fabric— “No!” She flinched as if she’d been bitten by a snake, her head snapping around to look at me. Her eyes were wide with terror. She pointed a trembling finger at me, her voice a ragged cry to the man in the suit. “Don’t! I don’t want her! Get her away from me! She’s that devil’s child! Leave her here to rot!” I froze, my hand still hanging in the air. The man in the suit pulled my mother into his arms, murmuring softly, “It’s okay, Evelyn. It’s okay. We’ll leave her here. We’ll leave her.” Just then, a man in a driver’s cap looked at me, then stepped forward hesitantly. “Sir, Ma’am… Mr. and Mrs. Ashford… my wife and I, we can’t have children. Seeing this little one… if it’s alright with you… I’d like to adopt her.” My mother nodded instantly, desperately. The suited man—Mr. Ashford—looked from my mother to me, a deep weariness in his eyes. He waved a dismissive hand. “Fine. Yes. That’s for the best.” My mother didn’t look back. She let Mr. Ashford guide her into the fanciest car, the door shutting with a solid, final thud. The engine purred to life. As the car began to move, to take her away forever, something inside me snapped. I tore my hand from the driver’s grip and ran, my bare feet pounding against the sharp gravel of the road. “Momma! Momma!” Pain shot through the soles of my feet, but I didn’t care. I just ran and screamed, tears streaming down my face, blurring the taillights into red streaks. “You promised! You said you’d kiss me! You promised!” The car picked up speed, disappearing around a bend at the end of the road. I stumbled to a stop, doubling over, coughing until my lungs burned. 2 The driver, who told me to call him Leo, parked in front of a house so big and bright it hurt my eyes. It had white pillars and huge windows, grander than all the houses in my town put together. But I didn’t go in through the big, shiny front door. Leo took my hand and led me around the back, to a small, hidden door that opened into the basement. “Kiddo,” he said softly. “This is our home now.” The room was tiny, with a metal-frame bed, a wobbly table, and piles of clutter. The concrete walls were damp to the touch. The only light came from a single, high window, a small rectangle that showed the feet of people walking by outside. I was happy. It was so much better than the shack. And from here, I could see my mother every day. Sometimes, I was allowed into the backyard for a bit of air. I would see her—I learned her name was Evelyn now—drifting through the rose garden. She wore beautiful, silky dresses that shimmered in the sun, like a fairy from a picture book. Mr. Ashford would be at her side, his hand on her arm. She was still pale, but she was slowly gaining weight. Once, I was staring too hard, and her eyes met mine by accident. Her expression froze, then hardened into a look of pure disgust, like she’d just spotted a cockroach. She turned abruptly and hurried back inside. Not long after I moved into the basement, my hair had started to grow back in a fuzzy, blond stubble. The family had guests—Evelyn’s cousin and her daughter, Lily, who was about my age. Lily was dressed in a pink, frilly dress with a big bow in her perfectly curled hair. She looked like a doll. Everyone adored her. Mr. Ashford patted her head gently. Evelyn even gave her a rare, faint smile, telling the housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, to bring out the best cookies and toys. I watched from the top of the basement stairs, hidden in the shadows. Leo had warned me to stay out of sight. But Lily found me. She tiptoed down a few steps, her head cocked. Then she pointed at my head and burst out laughing. “Mommy, look! It’s a bald freak! She’s so ugly!” My face burned with shame. I instinctively covered my head with my hands. Her mother gave a half-hearted tug on her arm. “Lily, that’s not nice.” But the adults upstairs paid no mind, their conversation continuing uninterrupted. Lily took that as permission. Later, while the grown-ups were talking in the living room, she snuck over to my basement room. She snatched the only toy I owned—a one-armed doll Leo had found for me—threw it on the floor, and stomped on it. “Baldies only play with trash!” she sneered. I trembled with rage, tears welling in my eyes, but I bit them back. I remembered my mother’s revulsion. I remembered Leo’s warning not to cause trouble. I bit my lip until it bled, picked up my dirt-stained doll, and wiped it clean with my sleeve. That afternoon, she took a sparkly rhinestone hair clip Evelyn had given her, and hid it under the thin, lumpy mattress on my bed. Then she ran upstairs, screaming. “My hair clip is gone! The one Aunt Evelyn gave me! It must have been the bald girl! She was staring at my hair all morning!” The house erupted. Lily’s mom grabbed her crying daughter, her voice sharp. “Evelyn, really… I know the girl comes from a rough place, but you have to teach her not to steal.” Evelyn’s face turned ashen. Without even asking, she snapped at Mrs. Gable, “Go get her. Now.” I was dragged into the living room. My bare, dusty feet were a smudge on the pristine white carpet. I clutched the hem of my worn dress. “I didn’t… I didn’t take it…” I whispered. “Liar!” Evelyn’s voice was shrill. “Did the clip just get up and walk away? I knew you were no good!” Mr. Ashford, sitting on the sofa, simply frowned at his newspaper. “What’s all the noise? It’s a small thing. If she took it, she can give it back. Just try to have cleaner hands in the future.” “Search her room!” Evelyn commanded. Mrs. Gable found the clip in seconds. From behind her mother’s skirt, Lily gave me a smug, triumphant smile. Evelyn looked humiliated. Her chest heaved as she pointed a shaking finger at me, turning to Leo. “Leo! Is this the good girl you’re raising? A common thief? Lock her in the basement. No food for three days! Let her think about what she’s done! I don’t want to see her face!” Leo opened his mouth, then closed it with a heavy sigh. He took my hand and led me back down the stairs. The door clicked shut, plunging the room into near darkness. I curled up on the cold bed, my stomach aching with hunger, but it was nothing compared to the cold in my heart. I didn’t cry. I just thought, Mommy is even angrier now. I did something wrong again. Maybe if I had hair, they wouldn’t think I was a thief. Maybe if I’d hidden better, Lily wouldn’t have found me. The three days were hard. Leo would sneak me crusts of bread and a cup of cold water. As I chewed the stale bread, a single, anxious thought consumed me: What if Mommy gets sick from being so angry? She’s already so frail. 3 Three days later, when the door finally opened, my legs were so weak I could barely stand. The sunlight was a physical blow, and the smell of food from the kitchen made my empty stomach cramp violently. Leo pulled me into a corner and pressed a small bowl of warm broth into my hands. His own hands were trembling, his eyes red. “Kiddo, eat slow. There’s… there’s something I have to tell you.” I looked up at him, my spoon halfway to my mouth. “The missus… your mother… she’s pregnant.” I froze. The spoon clattered against the bowl. Pregnant? Momma… was having another baby? I remembered back in the shack, my mother’s belly had gotten big once before. I’d hidden and watched as she slammed her own body, again and again, against the sharp stone edge of the hearth, until dark red blood soaked through her pants and pooled on the dirt floor. I had been too terrified to even make a sound. But this was different. Here, in this beautiful house, with Mr. Ashford, she wouldn’t have to do that anymore. From that day on, everything revolved around my mother and the baby. Mr. Ashford was home more, his voice softer, full of a joy I’d never heard. The whole house smelled of rich, savory soups Mrs. Gable was always cooking. Sometimes I’d sneak a glance from the backyard and see new, whimsical wind chimes hanging in the windows upstairs. It was all so beautiful, and so far away, like a story from another world. I could only listen to the muffled sounds of them discussing names, my hand drifting up to touch the prickly stubble on my scalp, a hollow ache in my chest. I still couldn’t help but wonder. Would it be a boy or a girl? Would it look like her, or Mr. Ashford? My longing to see my mother grew stronger. I knew she hated the sight of me, but I couldn’t stop myself. I’d hide behind drying sheets on the clothesline, or in the shade of a large azalea bush, just to catch a glimpse of her. She was gaining more weight, a healthy color returning to her cheeks. Mr. Ashford would walk with her in the garden, and sometimes she would look down at her growing belly, a soft hand resting on it. Once, lost in thought, I wasn't hidden well enough. She sensed me. Her eyes swept the yard and landed on me. The softness on her face vanished, replaced by a mask of cold fury. She turned and practically ran back inside, slamming the glass patio door shut. The curtains were drawn, a final, definitive barrier. A few days later, I heard her voice from upstairs, hysterical and weeping. “I can’t! I can’t stand it! I have nightmares just knowing she’s here! It will hurt the baby! You have to send her away! Send her so far away I never have to see her again!” Mr. Ashford’s low voice soothed her. “Alright, alright, don’t get worked up. For the baby… whatever you want. I’ll have Leo arrange it.” Leo came down to the basement, his eyes red-rimmed. He silently packed my small bag—two old dresses and my one-armed doll. He kept stroking my head, his voice choked. “Kiddo, you be good, you hear? You take care of yourself… I’m so sorry…” I kept my head down. I didn’t cry. I was being thrown away again. As Leo was leading me towards the back door, a new set of voices echoed from the front of the house. A striking, elderly woman with hair the same natural blonde as mine and eyes like blue jewels was being welcomed in. She was impeccably dressed, carrying a leather handbag, and laughing with Mr. Ashford. We had to cross the hallway to leave, and our paths intersected. The old woman’s eyes landed on me instantly. She stopped, her blue eyes studying me with curiosity. “Oh? And who is this little angel?” she asked in a clear voice with a faint European accent. “Arthur, you didn’t tell me you had such a charming young guest.” The mood in the room shifted. Everyone froze. My mother shrank behind Mr. Ashford. “Aunt Isabella,” Arthur said, his voice strained. “This is our chauffeur’s adopted daughter. From the country. She’s a bit… unruly. We were just sending her back.” The woman, Isabella, nodded thoughtfully. As Leo tried to pull me along, she raised an elegant hand. “Well,” she said, her voice ringing with authority. “If you’re sending her away, you might as well send her to me. I quite adore her.” 4 She looked down at me, her smile gentle. “Oh, my dear little angel, what is your name? How old are you?” A name? The man in the shack had always called me “bastard.” My mother… my mother had always sobbed that I was a “millstone,” a “curse.” I didn’t think I had a name. Just then, Evelyn peeked out from behind Arthur. “Aunt Isabella! She’s just a wild kid from the sticks, no name, no manners! She’s clumsy, she even steals! If you want a child for company, you should take Lily. Lily is smart and polite, you’d…” “Evelyn,” Isabella interrupted her, her tone still gentle but firm. “I was speaking to the child.” She turned back to me, her blue eyes encouraging. I looked at my mother’s pale, desperate face, and clutched my little bag tighter. My mind was a mess. I should go with this lady. It would make my mother happy. If I was gone, she wouldn’t be angry, and it would be better for the baby. But if I left… would I ever see my mother again? Isabella reached out and took my small hand in hers. She then stood and addressed Leo. “Leo, please pack the child’s things. Just the basics. I will buy her everything else new.” And just like that, I was led away like a stray puppy, my hand in hers, walking towards the front door. As we passed my mother, I looked up at her. She buried her face in Arthur’s shoulder, refusing to meet my eyes. Isabella’s car was even fancier than Mr. Ashford’s. She lifted me inside; the seats were like clouds. As the car pulled away, I pressed my face to the window, desperately looking back. The big, bright house grew smaller. Leo was a tiny figure waving from the driveway. Would my mother come out for one last look? No. Everything blurred and then disappeared around the corner. The car was quiet and smelled of lavender. Isabella looked at my bald head and my ill-fitting dress and sighed softly. She took a cashmere shawl from her shoulders and wrapped it around me, cocooning my small body. “Poor little bird,” she whispered. “Don’t be afraid. You’re with Grandma now.” After a moment, she asked again, her voice soft. “Tell me your name, dear. I can’t call you ‘little angel’ forever.” I looked down at my lap. “I’m five,” I mumbled. “I don’t have a name.” Isabella was silent for a long moment. Then, in a voice that was certain and grand, as if she were making a royal decree, she said, “No name? That simply will not do. You came to me in the summer, like the brightest, warmest sunshine. From now on, your name will be Summer. May your life be as brilliant and warm as your name.” Summer? I had a name. My name… was Summer. I repeated it in my mind, over and over, a secret treasure.
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