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she is just like his mother, like her mother, brave enough to fight for her place in a world that doesn’t want her.
james is not a fighter. he never had to be, the color his mother gave him overcome by the weight of his father's name.
james is not a fighter. he never learned to be, hiding instead that secret, offensive part of him, the one which finds him hissing in his best friend's garden on a quiet day.
his daughter doesn’t hide.
she is nothing like him, save her unruly black hair; perhaps that is for the best.