Snippet #926449

I smiled as Aunt Phoebe pointed out my mother and herself in one of the pictures, saying that I looked like my mother. Nobody else had ever made that connection. They had always said that you looked like her, and people had always known I was not the daughter of our mom and your dad. Some people have even asked if I'm adopted. When people said I looked like my mom, I was kind of happy, because it's better then people trying to find something to say, and then coming up with something like "you have pretty eyes" just for the sake of politeness. Our mother is a pretty woman, Emma, and when people sometimes said I looked nothing like her, it let me down a little bit. My eyes scanned over the menu, looking for the right flavor that'd catch my eye and sound good.
"I'll have a cone with a scoop of butter pecan, please," I said. Everyone had always thought that it was strange how I liked that flavor, but I didn't care. It's always been my favorite. Once, Emma, you decided to take a lick of mine, and ended up spitting it into the sink, making a huge scene, talking about how "it tastes so yucky", going on and on and on.
I glanced at the outfit, red and white, puffy. I had always thought the uniform would be prettier if they didn't make the proportions so ridiculous, and they didn't seem like ver good color choices. I myself would've pictured them as blue and yellow, with a prettier, shorter skirt in a plaid design, without the suspenders, the tee shirt a sunny yellow with the words written in blue....
And so my thoughts carried me away from being upset, and so began the magic that always happened at the ice cream shop. When we got home, I'd be fine. I just had to get mom to be fine, too.