I spent years hating it. Hours of focused disgust and hostility. I tried lemon juice and fade creams. If I had a scalpel, I probably would have cut it out. My cheeks were fuller when I was a teenager and I could see it from every angle anytime I looked at myself in the mirror. My mole.
I used to scrutinize the photo album of my parents wedding. My mother looked like Jackie Kennedy with her short curly dark hair, large hazel eyes, square face and thin lips. She was gorgeous, as her mother was before her. I didn't look anything like her, none of the six of her kids do. We look like my dad.
When I was a teenager I had a lot of time to devote to self hatred, so I did. Just like every other adolescent. I didn't want to be me. But, when I grew up and moved away from home, that started to change. My parents followed me. All I had to do was look in the mirror. Not only did I have my dad's long face, I also had his stubbornness. And while I didn't think I looked anything like my mom, I have her nose, her soft curls and her inhibited goofiness.
When I adopted my kids, I was thankful not to pass on my acne and moles. They would simply be whoever they are without my blemishes tarnishing them. That is left in the hands of a stranger they'll probably never meet. Somewhere in the world is the woman they don't know with the eyes just like theirs. Or the man with a thick head of hair and hearty laugh.
While I had the privilege to come to terms with who I am and where I came from, my kids have a hole. One that I can never fill.