That morning started like most mornings in our house—loud, crowded, and held together by routines we built out of survival.
I stood in the women’s aisle at the grocery store holding a pack of pads while trying to remember which brand Maya said worked best for her sisters. Ahead of me, a nervous teenage girl stood beside her mother while the woman whispered something gentle enough to make her daughter smile through embarrassment.
I remember watching them and thinking:
Natalie should’ve been the one teaching our daughters this part of life.
Not me.
My third daughter, June, had started her period that morning.
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