She has taken everything from me. Her porcelain skin glows with all her youth but mine is rough from years of enduring life’s relentless blows. Her gentle hazel eyes glimmer with joy while mine are dull with a dark sheen of reality. She runs and jumps, laughs and sings with the rising sun each morning, but I awake to aching knees and overdue bills. She jokes with my husband, and his eyes are soft when he wraps her in his arms. When he speaks to me, his brow is pinched together and he rubs his temples. Her legs are long and her stomach flat. Behind her smiling little lips, her teeth are quirky and precious, while mine are coffee-stained and painfully straightend. But it’s not enough. If I would’ve known all those years ago that this is what it would be like, I never would have done it. If I would’ve known that every single day of my life, I’d have to watch my daughter prance around, a carbon copy of me in my prime, I never would have begged my husband to try for a child. She is a constant reminder of what I have lost.