April 5, 2025
By Ayesha Farrow
I don’t talk about this memory often, but I think about it more than I’d like to admit. It’s strange how something so small, so seemingly insignificant to others, can lodge itself in your chest like a splinter you never quite pull out.
I must have been about two, maybe two and a half. My dad had this old bicycle with a little seat in the front where I’d ride with the wind in my face, clinging to the handlebars like I was flying. It was one of those golden childhood memories — until it wasn’t.
That day, we were headed to visit the landlord’s daughter, who had just come back from abroad with her newborn baby. My parents decided to stop at a baby store along the way to grab a few gifts. And that’s when I saw it.
The umbrella.
It was tiny, just my size. Bright green, with little cartoon cats all over it — and on top, two tiny fabric cat ears poking up like they were listening to my heart thudding in excitement. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I don’t know how to explain it, but at that moment, that umbrella became the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I asked my dad if I could have it, and to my surprise, he said yes. I lit up.
I held it all the way on the bike, gripping it like it was treasure. My imagination was already going wild — I saw myself walking around with it even when it wasn’t raining, twirling it just because it was mine.
But then we got to the landlord’s house.
And my dad handed my umbrella — the cat-ear, green, perfect umbrella — to the woman with the baby. Just like that. No explanation. No “we’ll get you another one.” Nothing.
I stood there, still straddling the bike, watching that moment unfold like a slow-motion betrayal. My little mind didn’t understand. I couldn’t process it. I just knew something was deeply, deeply wrong.
They called me to come inside. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I stayed outside for what felt like forever, too proud to cry in front of anyone, but too heartbroken to pretend I was okay.
I think that was the first time I learned the sting of disappointment. The first time I felt like what I wanted didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter.
It’s been over two decades, and I still remember every detail of that umbrella.
Some people say kids don’t remember things from that young. I do. I remember exactly how it felt to think you had something special, only to realize it was never meant for you at all.
— Ayesha Farrow
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