On the day I was born, the doctor seemed more excited than my own mother. Of course I don’t remember it myself, but I’ve been told over and over how she was sporting a smile as wide as the moon, struggling to stay awake as she listened to the tik-taks and clicks of the doctor’s computer as he ran the genetic tests that determine who you can become. According to her, for almost the entire time after I was born he had at least one hand on his head, scratching his unkempt, dusty brown hair as he paced incessantly. Apparently the process of running my tests, especially the neurological examination, took almost three hours, twice as long as it did for her younger brother. After that, though, he revealed with a bewildered look that my tests were all flawless; that from a medical perspective, I was perfect. That this was the first time he’d seen, heard or even read about anything like this that wasn’t pure speculation. That I’d have the power to choose my own destiny. It took me a majority of my life to understand what he meant, but I’ve always known that his words are the origin of my name: Mira, short for miracle.

 I grew up in a crowded two room apartment in the stacks of Lower Dunwell with my mother and my older brother. Looking back on it, I don’t know how anyone was supposed to survive in that dump; just everything was wrong with it. The floor, made of unsanded wood, gave us so many splinters that we had to wear shoes everywhere except the bath and to bed. Not that we spent long in the bath, pierced by the freezing cold water, or that it was easy to fall asleep next to paper-thin walls and neighbors who you’d think were nocturnal. Such was the nature of the lower side, however, and we made do in that undermantinenced, overpriced pigsty for almost two decades. I had friends at the very least, a small group of girls from my building who would meet up in the afternoons, walking over broken glass and eviction notices to meet up and complain about the sink, the toilet, the noise or whatever was worse that week.

My brother wasn’t as lucky as me, however. He was and still is a frail boy, coughing day and night, helplessly stuck in the bed next to mine. Now that I have the money to take care of him he’s doing a lot better, but back then I don’t know how he survived. It didn’t help that my mother had another child to take care of, nor that my father was long gone. I always felt like my mother purposefully ignored his deteriorating health to make sure I was fed and taken care of, but as an impressionable child I only took it for what it was and never questioned it.

In contrast to my tumultuous home life, school always came easy to me. Of course, the work itself never presented a challenge, but just being able to exist in a building with clean bathrooms and free lunch everyday was nice; I enjoyed the consistency. That aside, in fifth grade my teacher Ms. Nancy suggested I apply to the Upper Dunwell Academy of Learners, a prestigious middle and high school on the opposite side of town. Ms. Nancy was a tall, younger woman from Upper Dunwell; her clothes were always in style and she tended to speak down to other people, whether they were kids or coworkers. She liked me, though, or at least she always called on me when my hand was raised, made me line leader when I asked, and caved for a bunch of meaningless nonsense. I disliked the attention, as it separated me from the other kids, but I guess that was her plan: make sure I knew I was different, then ship me off to rich-person school. I’ll always remember a conversation I overheard between her and my mother one afternoon. I was getting picked up when out of the blue she said, “You’re Mira’s mother, yes? I must say she is a work of art! How much did you spend when she was born? 50? 60? I imagine that’s why you’re living in that dump down the street, yes?”

“No, ma'am, I did not spend a penny.” my mother replied through gritted teeth. “I am just one lucky mama.”

“Oh… interesting. Well, regardless, you want her to have a good education, yes?” Ms. Nancy continued. “You should apply to UDAL! That’s the Upper Dunwell Academy of Learners. It’s a school full of other gifted kids, so little Mira would fit right in, yes?”

As rude as she was, my mother took her advice, and took me to the school to apply. There were two parts to the process, a written test and an interview with the school’s principal, both to be administered the following week. She was especially worried about the latter, and took extra shifts at work in order to afford a set of nice school clothes and supplies. We practiced curtseys and handshakes every day after that, which my mother said was to leave a good impression on the principal, but my brother told me in secret that it was so we wouldn't look poor.

At the interview, Principal McHugh bombarded me with questions. He spoke very loudly, with the same superior tone as Ms. Nancy, and maintained eye contact for the entire time he talked. “What district are you from? How long did you study for the written test? Why aren’t both of your parents here?” It felt like I was being interrogated. After answering all of his questions, though, he began flipping through my tests, licking his finger to flip every page. He got a lot nicer after that, asking a few more questions about my old school, but his tone never changed. After about an hour, Principal McHugh shook my hand with an iron grip and welcomed me to “his lovely academy.”

UDAL was certainly a lovely place, and felt like a world away from life in Lower Dunwell. Every day a baby blue bus would pick me up from the stop across the street from my house to take me to school. The building itself was so futuristic it was almost alien, with spotless, white floors that you could see your reflection in and floors of classrooms lined with the newest technology (at the time hologram machines were only recently introduced to the world, but The Academy made it seem like they were old news). The people I met there were fancy as well; there was Cathy, whose dad owned a clothing line, Michael, whose mom owned a restaurant chain, Isabel, whose parents were famous on TV, and many others. Whenever I met someone new they would ask what my parents owned, but I didn’t know, so I would always dodge the question. They also wanted to play after school a lot, but my mother told me not to invite people over because my brother needed his rest, so I visited their houses. Every single house that I visited was a mansion: I saw intricate fountains boxed in by beautiful gardens, met butlers who tended to my classmates’ every needs, and talked to parents and guardians whose last names are household products. For the first time, I felt embarrassed.

At the Academy, I was asked on a lot of dates. I went to movie theaters, parks, restaurants, and saw a lot more big houses. My mother started to work another job in order to afford perfume, makeup and clothes. She also always told me to marry the boy who has the biggest house (in order to make her hard-earned money worth it), so I waited for him. Eventually I met Jeremy McHugh, whose parents owned most of the schools and libraries in Dunwell, and we started going on dates together, usually to candle-lit restaurants or libraries his parents owned. We got along well, and eventually fell in love. Jeremy started to buy me perfume, makeup and clothes, so my mother spent the extra money on herself, to look presentable to Jeremy’s parents. She looked tired even in her most expensive outfits.

After a long eight years at UDAL, I graduated at the top of my class. My graduation ceremony was held in the most beautiful ballroom I’d ever seen; the whole hall was covered in hand painted portraits of our class, the tables were covered with spotless white cloth and intricate sculptures for centerpieces, and staff in black suits were carrying trays of appetizers that had French or Latin names. Everyone’s siblings and parents and grandparents were there, too, drinking wine and talking about us. As the valedictorian, Principal McHugh asked me beforehand to give a speech to the whole school about hard work and the future, but I never had to work hard and I didn’t know my plans for the future, so I politely declined. The school had a hologram give the speech for me; it seemed to know a lot more about me than I did.

Jeremy and I grew very close over the next few years. He said he thinks that everyone should go to college, and paid for me to study at the University of Dunwell, which his mother owned. I decided to study art; I’d always enjoyed painting and sculpture classes at UDAL, as it was something I never had the opportunity to do at home. I liked art classes at college too, but I didn’t like the people I met in those classes. They all said that they knew Jeremy, and kept asking me to introduce them to him.

While Jeremy never met my college friends he did meet my brother, the day I took him to see my childhood apartment in Lower Dunwell. He didn’t get along at all with my brother, and said that my house was “unbefitting for someone of your pedigree”. Soon after that, he invited me to live with him, and together we moved into the second-biggest house (the first biggest being Jeremy’s parents’ house). Our house looked just like the ones I visited when I was at the Academy, with a large fountain surrounded by gardens filled with flowers of every color, a butler named Michael who took care of the cleaning and cooking, and a two story library that Jeremy’s parents filled with books as a housewarming gift. It felt strange having that much space to myself, especially when Jeremy would leave to go on business trips with Mr. McHugh, so I got a dog, a Maltese Terrier who loved to run across the marble floors.

After I finished college, I was able to decide what art looks best in the two biggest houses. Jeremy’s father always bought whatever I decided on, and even let me give one to my mother for her birthday one year! I picked one I thought she’d enjoy, with a beautiful sunset overlooking three people on a rustic bridge, but the next time I visited it wasn’t there. She said that she got rid of it because it didn’t match the wallpaper, but I’m sure she sold it to help my brother.

A few years later, Jeremy and I got married. The ceremony was almost as big as the biggest house, and we were able to invite whoever we wanted (I only invited my mother and brother, though). Light reflected around the venue through intricate glass table pieces, everybody was wearing their finest suits and gowns, and the cake had so many layers I felt like the frosting alone could last me a year. I got lots of expensive gifts from people I didn’t know very well, and I was able to decorate a lot of the previously empty rooms in my house. Because my father was never there, Jeremy’s father gave me away instead. My mother seemed elated at this, but Mr. McHugh did not.

The happiness of marriage didn’t last long, though, as my mother passed away only a few months after. Mrs. McHugh held a ceremony maybe as big as the hundredth-biggest house, but not a lot of people showed up. My brother, who had only recently begun to improve, led the ceremony, while Jeremy organized decorations and caterers. The main event was the reading of a note that my mother left behind, written onto the back of a crumpled receipt.

To my brave son,

You have fought so hard to get where you are. Keep fighting and keep thriving, even without me. I know you can.

To Mira,

You don’t understand how proud I am of you. You’ve done so much in the short time you’ve been alive, and I trust that you will accomplish much more in due time. It pains me to leave you, but I’m happy for the time I spent watching you grow. I mean, look where you are, I must’ve done something right! I love you so much.

My brother and I were the only ones who cried at the ceremony, our tears falling to the ground in unison. As I took out my handkerchief to clean my face, I wondered if all the people at my wedding would attend my funeral.

Life went on, and two years later I was blessed with my first child, a girl who Jeremy named Rachel, after his late grandmother. While I was pregnant, Jeremy spent a lot of time with the doctor, and I took many tests. Some sounded similar to the ones my mother told me about from when I was born, but others were completely different; I was poked and prodded and pinched, but I endured for Jeremy, and for my child. It was easy, though, when I imagined how much my brother had to go through when he was young. One day, back at the house a few weeks after Rachel was born, I jokingly said to Jeremy that she looks exactly like I did as a baby. His only response was a simple nod and the words, “Of course she does. You set a good standard.”

Rachel grew up, and I gave her a brother named Daniel and a sister named Eve. All of my children had “as-expected” test results, and none of them coughed day and night. They all had their own rooms in the second-biggest house, and I took care of them as my mother did for me. Jeremy paid for their schooling, and they all graduated at the top of their class. I watched them make lots of friends who got invited to our house, go on dates that I didn’t have to work to afford, and go to college for free at the University of Dunwell. They all got married, too, which Jeremy called “expanding our influence.” Their spouses talked a lot about what their parents owned, and I think I was the only one who didn’t care to listen.

Today, I’m happy to be alive to see my first grandchild, who Rachel decided to name Melissa. As everyone smiles and reminisces and ooh-ahhs, I look around the room and take in the details. Everything is white: the walls, not chipped or dented, the floor, free of shoe prints and blood stains, even the doctor’s uniform, stitched with a surgeon’s precision. Even time is sterile as I think about the stories my mother told me when I was young, and those I’ve told her as she grew old. Only by taking everything in, my past, present and future, can I truly grasp the meaning of my name.