When I was born the hospital staff thought evolution had tripped back a few steps. My mother cried out of joy, but the doctors and nurses whispered about my huge hands and feet, my prematurely furrowed brow.
When I was six the dentist told my parents I needed braces. "She's a characteristic mouth breather," he began to scribble a note on his yellow pad, "I'd recommend you make an appointment with an orthodontist."
"How can you tell something like that this early?" my mother snapped. Dr. Lee stopped writing. Dad took my hand and we all left the office; I got braces seven years later.
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