When my cousin asked guests to bring books instead of cards to her daughter's baby shower—each with a blessing for the new arrival—I knew I wanted to find something truly special that no one else would choose. After searching for the perfect title without success, I realized I had the power to create exactly what I was looking for: I'm a writer, and I should write one myself.

The story's foundation came from a family hiking adventure a few years earlier. The mosquitoes were so relentless that day that even industrial-strength repellent proved useless. While the expectant mother (a teenager then) and grandmother-to-be wisely retreated to the truck, the rest of us pressed on through the swarm. But having a setting was only the beginning—I still needed a character, a storyline, and most importantly, a meaningful reason to tell this particular story.

As I contemplated the world this unborn child would inherit—one that isn't quite as welcoming as we might hope in this day and age—I began to understand the deeper purpose of my tale. This child, though likely to appear as white as his mother, would be considered an "other" by society's standards, just like his mother, born to a white mother and biracial father.

This realization led me back to those persistent mosquitoes. What if, within that overwhelming swarm, there existed one small mosquito who simply wanted to make friends? What if he was being judged solely on what he was—a mosquito—rather than who he was as an individual? I discovered that male mosquitoes don't actually consume blood, which gave me my character: a gentle, lonely little mosquito seeking friendship in a world that judges him by appearance alone.

And so my story was born—the tale of a misunderstood creature whose greatest challenge isn't his nature, but others' assumptions about it. In a world quick to judge by appearances, finding genuine connection becomes both a difficult and dangerous journey.