Parents love to talk about how cute their kids are. My parents were no different, my father more specifically loved, loved, loved talking about my chrysalis and eclosion. I came from a family of  butterflies, beautiful butterflies, other than a few distant moth family members the rest of my family members consisted of various species of butterflies. The few moth relatives I did have however weren't as involved or present as the rest of my family, they were only really around for big events, weddings and such. Never for anything personal, they were the type of family members you’d have to get clarification on who they were if you heard their name. 

“Have you heard from Sydney lately”

“Sydney? Who’s Sydney"

“You’ve talked to her before she was the word moth girl with the curly hair at Cynthia’s wedding”. 

“Ohh her, uh not really, why?”

They were almost like an urban legend. In the few times I had seen them they would stick out like sore thumbs. Against the colorful, vibrant, saturated, and bright colors that my cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents' wings would give, their brown, black, gray and dull wings were jarring, they made the whole scene look  as if someone spilled coffee over a Picasso or a monet. Nobody really talked to them and they didn't really talk to anyone either, the air around them was dense and awkward not because they were bad to talk to, but because everyone else felt like they were hard to talk to. If you did speak to them (and most people didn't) they were actually quite pleasant. I was at my Aunt's baby shower when one of my moth family members started talking to me about the band t-shirt I was wearing. They weren't awkward or hard to talk to. He was nice and the conversation went smoothly, after that I started questioning why nobody talked to them. They were nice people, but they weren't butterflies.

Now as a kid I was promised a metamorphasis. In my “caterpillar days" my father would sit me down and fantasize about how beautiful my wings would be. 

“You’re going to be beautiful Lilith, gorgeous I promise, just like your sisters!”

Oh how glorious the day I’d crawl out of my cocoon and spread them in the summer sunlight would be. I’d flap them softly, gently, gracefully like they, made of dust, they’d be soft, not the kind of soft pillows or blankets are, but the kind of soft that cobwebs and soggy leaves are. I’d fly on up above and spread them and I’d let everyone beneath bask in the almost disco ball effect 

the color and pattern of my future wings would give them, and they’d look at me in awe. I’d look angelic, and breathtaking, my father would say. Enchanting even.

I could never seem to resonate with this however. Could never fantasize like he could, like he would, having wings was never my dream, never the same way it was my fathers dream.

My father would talk on and on and for some reason I could do nothing but let my mind wander till he was done. However as I grew, and grew, and grew, and then grew some more I never coconed. I never changed, I never got “gorgeous”. And as I grew and grew, I grew further from my father. The hope he had for my metamorphosis was slowly changing into disappointment of my grades or lack of extracurriculars, my quiet social life, whatever it was that parents get mad at their kids for. The light in his eyes that would ignite when he would see me died out through the years. And eventually talking to him was like trying to light a fire with a match in the snow. I don’t think I was made to be my fathers daughter. Not the same way my sisters are.

 I never changed, until I did. I stayed the same throughout the years, you could say I was a late bloomer. I was a normal kid, too normal, if someone was asked to describe me as a color they would probably choose gray or beige. If someone was asked to describe me as a food they would probably choose unseasoned mashed potato. I had joined a few clubs, I had a few friends, I studied, I got average grades. Life was okay, life was tepid and lackluster but it was okay. I was doing alright. Until I wasn't. 

One day I grew into a marvelous, amazing, beautiful ....moth. A moth. Don't get me wrong by no means was I an ugly moth. To moth standards I am nothing short of perfect. My wings weren't like cobwebs but more similar to the skin on bat wings. They were nothing like leaves but closer to the branches they fell from. My wings consisted of dark harsh colors, nothing about them screamed picasso or monet, they were the coffee on the painting, they were the stain at the wedding venue.

This was, ofcourse, a tragedy to my father. It was his own personal chernobyl. Before my big debut, when I had finally cocooned, my mother told me she had never seen him happier. He was ecstatic. He held a party the day of my eclosion. He had decor and a caterer, he had invited all my family members (even the moth ones) so I could dazzle them once I emerged. When I did finally emerge, I was taken aback by the sheer size of the party. Not one birthday, or holiday event has my father even held a party quite as extensive as this one. I was so surprised I had almost forgotten why he had it in the first place. That was when I fully stepped out and flapped my wings up. I didn't fly up gracefully, softly I flapped my wings hard, and when I spread my wings in the summer sunlight, there was no disco ball effect for my family to bask in. Instead their faces of surprise and anguish were covered in the dark shadow my opaque wings provided. I was definitely not angelic. 

The days after that were quieter. Silent, almost still, I had done the worst thing I could to my father, yet still when I looked at myself I couldn't help grin. I wondered if deep down I had known what I was when my father would rant about my debut as a butterfly. Maybe that's why I was so estranged and isolated for so long. However the days after that were also happier, lighter.  A huge pressure that was weighing down on not just me but also my father had been lifted. This may have been the end of his world, but he would still wake up tomorrow, he would still make himself two sunny side up eggs and a coffee, he would still read the morning paper. He would live, and he would come to terms with it. I would get up, I would go for my morning run, I would make myself cereal and I would come to terms with it too. My father would continue to be my father and I his daughter. And whenever I would look at a mirror I couldn't help but grin. Because I wasn't a butterfly, I was gorgeous. Enchanting even.