I know that even though I'm first, I’m not nervous. At six, I am already used to being on display. I have on a beautiful dress my mother made – a white, filmy top with ribbons and buttons and a long skirt of hot pink velvet. In my black patent shoes I stand up straight, waiting for the signal. Confidently, I take the first step when the organ music begins to play. All heads turn to watch me. Family and strangers, their faces blur together as I smile my most radiant smile. Who captures their attention? Our long brown hair in matching buns, my oldest sister and I are at opposite ends of the line – the child and the bride, the beginning and end of a family of seven.

Later that night at the reception, I dance for hours to the music of the local German band. Laughing, I smile again as the guests gather in a circle around me, clapping to cheer me on. It is early morning when my father wraps me in his coat and carries me out in the January cold, gently placing me in the back seat of our big green car for the ride home. Still awake, I listen to the songs on the radio and think to myself that this has been the best day of my life.

I run to meet her at the door. Have you brought any work for me, I ask? Eagerly, I gather the stacks of papers and head to the family room where I place them all neatly on the floor around me, take out my pen, and begin systematically to check the answers. I place a neat red check beside the incorrect answers, draw a smiling face on perfect papers. This is my favorite activity; the reason why I wait all week for her visits. Even though her students are two grades ahead of me, I never falter in my accuracy – math, spelling, whatever the subject may be. In the back of the room I hear snippets of conversation; I know she and my mother are talking about me. They are not sure what to do with me; my teachers won’t let me skip grades. I’m stuck in third for now. But sometimes when I visit, she takes me to her classroom and I meet the older kids – my students. Maybe she will let me live with her, I imagine, and then I can always go to school with her and I can be the teacher, and she can be my mother.

It’s another weekend visit. Because my other sisters are close in age they share a room, but I have almost always had my own so Janice usually stays with me when she comes home alone. This Friday night, we’ve just crawled into my double bed, but she hasn’t turned off the light. I know she wants to tell me something. Hesitantly, as if she is not quite sure how to form the words, she says she is getting a divorce. In confusion, my only reply is "okay," and I roll over and stare at the dark pink walls as she turns off the bedstand light. In my child’s mind I can’t quite understand divorce, but somehow I know it is linked to a feeling of failure. Something didn’t work and it couldn’t be fixed. An alien concept. She’s perfect. My big sister. No more of her husband’s Donald Duck voices at the dinner table for me, but I never mention the loss, never ask why. Maybe my family talks about it, but not to me. I imagine that you never talk about difficult things.

I will never date a younger man, I vow. That must be the explanation.