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A Little Bit of Bad Luck


In court rooms, in affidavits, in apologies. The past three years have been about who gets custody. And about who gets me: Mallory.

I am just an object to them. I am the trophy after a big win—the plaque you hang on the wall. It’s not about where I would be happiest or what’s best for me, it’s about them getting back at each other.

People always tell me they are sorry for what happened and they wish it could have been different. But it doesn’t matter. They can’t do anything about it. They say I can talk to them, which is stupid because if they really knew me, they would know I don’t talk to people about what I feel—so why even ask?

Mallory sounds pretty. But if you heard it the way I do you wouldn’t think so. All it is is a game piece in the courtroom or a tidal wave of pointless sympathy smacking me in the face. To everyone else it’s just a name. But to me Mallory means change and possibility, positive and negative. And a little bit of bad luck.



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