Her first memory is being at the aquarium, staring into the face of a shark. She could remember that he didn't like the sharks, saying they unsettled him, reminded him too much of...
So mummy and daddy took her away from there and they all went to look at the rainbow fish instead.

She remembers her sixth birthday clearly.
Her parents had given her a doll that opened and closed its eyes, would eat from a spoon, and would wet a nappy. It was quite clever, but looking back, she really wasn't old enough to be a mummy. He gave her blocks with elements on them, stack them up the right way and they'd make a periodic table. (She didn't find that out until much later though.)
They had ice cream cake with her initials on it.
It was mint. It was delicious.

She realized she wasn't quite like other children by the age of eight, when he'd talk to her about science and history instead of playing pretend and colouring inside lines. She liked it.
Her parents sighed at him, told him that he should just let her be ordinary, but he insisted there was no point in being ordinary when she could be extraordinary.
She liked the sound of that.
Her parents let him continue, sighing loudly occasionally, but with a certain fondness.

Her parents were interesting. Most people in her life were all rather interesting, especially him, but her parents were hers, and that made them special enough all by itself.

She loved music, and the music that was spoken words. There didn't always have to be a melody to them.
That being said, she did still love music. He would play her violin for her, and it was so lovely. She wished she could, but her hands were still too small, and that was one thing that he wouldn't let her touch. She loved classical, and instrumental, and singular songs here and there, not one specific band or group, because that would have restricted her, and that was the last thing she wanted. She consumed music, enjoyed it like it was fine cuisine and she was starving.

She loved poems, but only the read out loud kind. Her head was already too full for them to echo around in it like they should have, like the way they did when someone read them out loud in a room, echoing off all the different people and all the spaces they had inside of them.
She liked to listen to other people's, and fit them to her, would read them out loud in her room to an audience of one, being herself, just to see how they sounded.

Her papa is a worrier.
Her mama is a warrior.
And she's the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more.

No, that's not right.

Her mama is a worrier.
Her papa is a warrior.
And she's the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more.

No, that's not right.
They're both warriors. But that doesn't mean they can't be worriers. Because they do. They worry about every little thing, things that shouldn't even be thought of, they worry about.
Because that's what they do. They're warriors and worriers, and you aren't excluded from being one just because you're the other.

They fit each other perfectly in that respect.
She's still not sure how their genes combined to make her though.
She should probably ask him. He'd know.
(Makes a note to herself, adds it to the ever growing list. Every time she asked him one, it seemed to only lead to five more. It was a bit counter productive, but she loved the way his eyes would light up when he talked about something, hands flying through the air and he tried to paint pictures with his hands.)

She was named after her mother, apparently, which she didn't quite understand, since her mother had a different name. But there was a lot of things she didn't understand, and she'd come to accept that, knowing that if she wanted to, and if she tried hard enough, she could find out. Knowledge was so magical that way. It was always out there, waiting for her to stand on her tippy toes to reach it.
She loved how it made her feel to always be stretching for more.

She never really sticks with one name. Her parents gave her three, so why shouldn't she change based on her mood?
Some days she feels like an Annabelle, sometimes she's an Anna, or a Belle, others she feels like a Gracie, other days she feels like a Rebecca, or a Becca.
And some days she doesn't feel like any of them, and won't respond no matter what she's called.
After those days are done, she tells them that she was in her mind palace, searching for herself, and only just found her.
(She got the mind palace from him, even though hers is nothing like a palace, not like she thinks his is anyways.)

AN- The poem bits are taken from Sarah Kay's 'If I Should Have a Daughter'.