Growing up, I didn’t really look like anyone in my family. Adults would study me and proclaim that I must have come from the Milk Man. When I was mad at my family, for whatever reason, I’d use this as a tool to feel sorry for myself, casting myself as the outsider. There was, however, no denying that I had my mother’s hands. My three sisters had long, beautiful fingers—like our father’s. I, on the other hand (literally), had my mother’s short, stubby fingers. Back