When was three or so, I owned a doll named Becky and another, smaller doll, who was Becky’s friend and whose name I don’t remember. I don’t really remember Becky much, either, except that I think she had curly dark hair, and a red dress.
One day, I came downstairs, and Becky and her friend were on the kitchen table, in a plastic bag. I asked my mother, Why.
She said, I’m donating them to children who don’t have any toys.
But I don’t want to give Becky away. I want to keep her.
No you don’t, said my mother. You’re done with her.
Her tone was final: the decision was made. So I stared at Becky in the plastic bag, missing her before she was gone, hoping those other children would love her, fearing they would just throw her away.