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I used to hate my eyes.
They looked exactly like my mother’s, which is enough said already.
My uncle always told me to look for the good in them. They looked just like his eyes too, so it wasn’t too hard. Though, I could never tell if he meant for me to see the good in his eyes, or if he meant to look for the good in hers.
I guess that’s when I should have known.
He never thought she was as bad as the rest of us did. He always said “as long as you all turn out fine she did a good job.”
Even if that WAS how it worked, none of us were fine. I was failing school and picking fights, Peter wasn’t doing great either and he was always off with his friends, Lila barely spoke even at six, and Evan was constantly terrified of everyone but me. I guess we would have been fine enough in his eyes as long as we could help him attain his goal.
I no longer see any good in these eyes.