Everybody in our family has different a different color that brings life to their eyes. My mom’s eyes are two pieces of milk chocolate covered almonds. And me, my eyes are indecisive. Sometimes storm clouds, varying blues, or an olive green. Marko’s eyes are hazel and olive. He gets his eyes from grandpa. Niko’s eyes are brown—gentle like a bear, but plain.

      But my dad’s eyes, my dad’s eyes, like the soothing sky, like the sparkling sea, glistening in the sun. They say my dad and I share eyes, our eyes are the outcasts in the family. You can tell when we are angry, our eyes brewing into a storm, when we are sad they are like comets. The beauty of blue eyes is the stories they tell. Our eyes are the first feature making us similar, but not the last. No wonder I’m a daddy’s girl.