On your next birthday, The Ancestress will come.  

Great-Grandma Walker thought she was a goddess. Grandma Walker thought she was a princess. Love them, girl, but don't believe them. Theirs are the tall tales I heard when The Ancestress came to me.  

Strawberry cake? No, sweetie. It must be a black birthday cake. The Ancestress' life was dark. When she was your age, she became a servant to a Scottish lord. The clothes she washed—walking, walking, walking around and around in a great cauldron—were sour. 

Yes, how awful.

On the night she comes, you'll wear a long dress to honour her, hide the titanium bionics we have.

Why? Because The Ancestress' legs are scrap iron with nails—nails!—made by a blacksmith who once heard her wailing, found her feet horribly burned by the lye.

Lye? A toxic soap used in olden days. Wail means to cry very loudly. The blacksmith loved her. She became sublime, a mechanical marvel. The first of our kind.   

By the light of her lantern, she'll appear at your window. A bit of a shock, but don't be afraid. The Ancestress won't have the shine of today. Her legs will be rusty, creaky from striding across the salty sea in search of New World Walkers.

Yes, it's sad. 

Still, when you see her, smile and three times say, "Rest, Ancestress. I am a happy child. I walk no man's clothes."

Let's practice right now. 

Good. Well done, Walker girl.