I was 11 years old when I finally discovered that my mother was a dragon. But I probably should have picked up on the signs earlier. There was the way she amassed endless piles of shiny trinkets to surround herself with. There were the times when she would fly off to distant lands for days on end to see to her personal affairs. There was, of course, her razor-sharp tongue. But it wasn’t until much later when I saw the clearest and most undeniable sign that she belonged not to humans, but rather to a species of mythical serpent. You see, my mother could spit fire.