Neverland Sarah Gagliardi

Sarah Gagliardi

Adults are children in disguise. Office buildings morph into castles, coffee boils into rich chocolate milk, taxes serve as coloring books, and “you’ll understand when you’re older” begins another adventure. My dad used to call me his little princess, my mom used to call me her angel baby. But once I turned a certain age, I was no longer their princess nor their angel; I am now a “young lady.” They stop saying “Did you have fun at school today, sweetheart?” and start drilling “What did you learn today? What grade did you get on your math test? Are you studying?” They stop celebrating when I do well on a test, and I watch how quickly “exemplary” becomes the bare minimum. But I will not be fooled by their outward collection, their “sensible attire,” their 10 cups of mocha lattes per day. They’re just pretending. I know that when they walk into that office building, they slay dragons. When they drive to work in their 2012 Toyota, they transform into valiant princes riding horses. And when they file their taxes, they scribble flowers and hearts all over the papers in hot pink crayon. Susan is really little Suzy, and Bill is really little Billy; they are both children waiting to come out of time-out.