“I won’t!” I declared, stamping a foot.
“You will!” my mother replied, foisting her latest frilly monstrosity on me.
“I hate dresses!”
“Stop being so pig-headed.”
“I am not!” I balled my hands into fists and stamped my feet more. “I don’t want to wear dresses!”
“You’re a girl. And you will wear one.”
This was just another Sunday morning where my mother decided the whole family would go to church. That meant I wore ribbon-covered dresses, shiny black shoes, and white stockings with pink bows. The ladies at church would fawn over me, calling me “adorable” and pinch my cheeks.
I glared at my brothers who complained about their ties. Ties! As if that could compare to my humiliation. In the car I sat with my arms crossed while my mother continued to tell me to smile and stop looking so sour.
I hated dresses, but most of all I hated being a girl.