Having my ears operated on was my dream since I was 13 years old.
That was the year the first boy I had a crush on made fun of me in front of his friends by calling me "Dumbo".
This nickname spread throughout the school faster than I would have thought possible.
By the end of the week, no one was calling me Amelia anymore.
They waved their hands behind my back as I walked past them.
The boys pulled my ears in the corridor before running away laughing.
A girl secretly took a picture of my profile during lunch and posted it online with elephant emojis.
The teachers told everyone to stop.
But nobody ever really obeyed.
As they grew up, the teasing became less frequent, but it never really disappeared.
The adults no longer pulled my ears. Instead, they would look at me for a second too long before pretending they hadn't noticed anything.
I learned to hide them.
I always wore my hair down.
No ponytail.
No bun.
No swimming, unless I could keep my hair dry.
Even on windy days, I would find myself checking to see if a strand of hair had slipped behind an ear.
People probably thought it was just a small complex.
For me, it influenced almost every decision I made.
What was strange was that I didn't look anything like the women in my family.
My mother, Gladys, had soft and delicate features. My grandmother too.
They both wore their hair short without giving it a second thought.
I couldn't imagine doing the same.
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