Do you like it when people say you resemble your parent?
Do you like it when people say you resemble your parent?. Do You mate own this kind of problem?, If yes then plz found the best solution below this line:
My parents tried for a long time to have a baby and could not get pregnant.
Legend has it they tried to conceive for seven years.
And one day, there I was.
My Dad used to put his hands on my mother’s belly as it grew; kiss it and hug it and jokingly say “This one is mine. You can have the next one”.
From the second I was born people around me exclaimed I looked just like my father.
Everything I have told you up until now is the story as my mother tells it.
Despite their epic disagreements my mother and father’s accounts regarding my creation and arrival were perfectly consistent through decades.
My own experience confirmed that “this one” (me) was indeed his.
When my dad introduced me to anyone, the conversation went something like this:
My Dad: Aaaaand, this is Dushka.
Visitor: Oh my god! No! This is uncanny! This is too much! This is not possible! She’s your spitting image! Two peas in a pod! A chip off the old block! The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree! Qué barbaridad! Esta niña no niega la cruz de su parroquia!
My Dad: Dushka. Say thank you.
Me: Thank you!
My favorite part is that being told I looked just like him made him beam. I felt like I belonged. Like I was loved.
It never got old.
Sometimes, my mom would introduce me to a friend of hers who had never met my Dad. This friend would say “Oh! She looks just like you!” to which my mom would reply “that’s because you haven’t seen her father”. My mom and I would then look at each other like “let’s cut her some slack. She just doesn’t know.”
The truth is that I can see my mother in myself. My hands are her hands. Hers are bigger, stronger, but I can see how mine were made using hers as the original model. I see her in other places too – in my back and shoulders, in my hunger and my lust for life.
Boyfriend and I have been dating for almost five years. He is relatively new in my life. He has met both my parents.
At least once a week I will do something and he will shake his head and say “Oh my god! No! This is uncanny! This is too much! This is not possible! She’s your spitting image! Two peas in a pod! A chip off the old block! The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!”
To which I reply “But, how would you know? He died before you really got to know him!”
“Dushka.” He says. “You are exactly like your mother”.
I feel bewildered, taken aback, enchanted, like I’ve been reminded of a gift I was given a long time ago but in the fog of excessive good fortune forgot to open.
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