With a deep sigh, I reached for my baby book on the top shelf of the closet. Mom and Dad probably didn't know that I would grow up to hate the color pink when they'd bought it, but I could forgive them for that, I supposed.

The book cracked open, as though it hadn't been touched in a long time. Mom's handwriting listed my birthday, weight, and hair and eye color on the first page. Being dead must rush her hand since the notes from her grave were scrawled. Pictures of me as a ...