Little happy things

When I was little, Barbie dolls made me happy. My brother would send them from Europe. I dressed my dolls, gave them baths and washed their hair. I used to imagine that one day I would buy them a nice house and maybe even a car. I had kitchenware and some toy furniture, but that wasn’t enough. I wanted them to have more clothes, more things, just more and more of everything. When I was little, family trips to the Caspian made me happy. I loved watching my mother pack for me. I liked dancing in the cabin and watching grownups make fires. I always got car sick on the way back, always.
When I was little, I was probably a lot happier with little things. When my Baba and brother left, I began feeling sad. I didn’t know how to cope and the sadness built up and then I hated school. I cried everyday and even as I said my prayers, I kept crying. My other brother who was still there tried to talk to me. He read me stories some nights before I went to sleep. I guess everybody tried to help me be okay.
I am too old to be read to these nights, but I am sad and don’t know what to do about it. I get sad looking at Baba. I get sad looking at Maman and her tired eyes. I get sad that my brother is starting to feel the struggles of being a new immigrant. I get sad that my sister has moved to her nice house, but is no longer around me everyday. I get sad that there are people whose children are still away from them and they work two jobs to make ends meet and have it a lot worst than I do. I get sad that I am like this instead of being a really happy young woman.
When I was little, I knew how to be happy.

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