I was complaining. We were bustling around the kitchen fixing our breakfast. Someone made a dig, again, about me being from the Midwest.

“Where you’re from is so special,” he said, spreading butter on his toast. “Everyone is from this city or that city, and everyone has the cynicism that comes from those places.” I stopped and leaned against the counter. “But you are different. You are loving and trusting and open just like the people are where you are from but without having any of the negative aspects that people associate with where you are from.” That’s a nice way of saying that people don’t think I’m stupid. He handed me the butter knife. “Don’t stand for it. It’s what makes you unique.”

Secret Seventeen, Revealed. I’m a truck driver’s daughter. I’m a secretary’s daughter. I’m the granddaughter of mail carriers and factory workers. What a slap in the face to these people to allow someone to look down on me—even just a little bit, when they kid with their elbows—because of where I’m from.

His eyes flickered with the same excitement they had when we first met. He saw me, again, as a unique mix of qualities that he never imagined existed before he met me, little Midwestern me. And it may be similar to a snowflake falling over the yellowing stalks of a harvested cornfield, but still, I sparkled under his gaze.