At the Kunzmanns’, I felt just as at home as I did at Grandpa and Lella’s house. There was Theresa, the daughter of “Grandma” Kunzmann, who was as old as Lella, and another elderly grandmother who always lay in bed. The house always felt full, lived-in, and welcoming—an extension of my own home.
When I got bored at Lella’s, or just needed a story, I’d walk across the courtyard and knock on the Kunzmanns’ kitchen window. “Grandma” Kunzmann would open it, and I would climb in. I never used the front door—only the window. That was my way.
Sometimes she’d read me Snow White, but her favorite story, the one she loved to tell again and again, was about the day I was born. She would sit in her chair by the window, and I’d settle at her feet on the little footstool, eager, expectant. Her voice was calm and melodic, like a bedtime song you never want to end.
She always began the same way:
“Marie, your mother, had already been struggling since Saturday. Your grandma and the midwife stayed with her all night. Mielemom, the neighbor across the street, came over and urged your grandma to rest a little. Strobelmom, from the Adler a few houses down, arrived early Sunday morning and changed the bed sheets.
It was a sunny Sunday morning—March 27th—just after six. The sun had just risen, and Marie’s time was near. Yes, it was hard for her. But by 6:30, everything was over.
Your grandpa was so excited he shouted from the bedroom window across the street, ‘It’s a girl!’ Everyone who was awake already came rushing over. Miehlepap, the cattle dealer, brought a fresh-baked meat loaf and told Marie in his awkward way, ‘Eat this now—you need to be strong and have milk for the little heifer.’”
She always paused to chuckle, then added, “You were anything but little. You weighed over nine pounds. That’s why Marie had to work so hard.”
She leaned in, eyes warm and nostalgic.
“Your grandma, the midwife, and the women from the neighborhood sat around the kitchen table afterward, drinking coffee and making plans for your future. Everyone agreed: you were born on a Sunday, and Sunday children are special.”
She said it like a sacred truth.
“You see, all children born on a Sunday are God’s favorite children. They’re born to please Him. God gives them special gifts—double strength, deeper kindness, a strong sense of honesty, and an innate understanding of right and wrong. They’ll need all of it,” she said seriously.
“Because Sunday children,” she added, “often have harder assignments in life. The Lord gives them more difficult tasks—but also the strength to carry them.”
Then came the story of my name.
A fierce argument broke out when my father insisted I be named after his mother, Sophie. My mother thought I should be named after hers, Theresa. But the women around the table dismissed both, saying, “These names are too small for a child with such a destiny. She needs a name with power, beauty, and purpose.”
After much debate, they chose names inspired by the Valkyries—Wotan’s daughters. I was named after Sieglinde the Sword and Waltraud the Guardian, the Custodian of warriors’ souls in Valhalla.
When it was time for church, no one from our house went—except Grandpa. He wrapped me in a blanket and carried me outside, showing me to everyone walking past on their way to service. It was cold, but sunny.
My grandma had a fit. “She’ll catch her death of cold!” she scolded.
But Grandpa just laughed. “She’s strong and healthy—nothing will happen. The people need to see my little girl.”
Oh yes, I was his little girl.
It never mattered to him that my father was upset. There was never any doubt that I would grow up with my grandparents. They didn’t like my father and never understood why my mother had married him. They called him “the lazy academic.” They had no patience for people who studied music and expected others to take care of them.
Now, standing outside the house I had once called home, it looked lifeless. Dreary. Sad.
The gray color the new owners had painted it after we moved still clung to the walls like dust. The once-bright house felt muted and forgotten. The large front window of the old store was still cracked from the time my brother had thrown a rock at it. Time had passed, but nothing seemed to have changed.
For a brief moment, I considered ringing the doorbell. I wanted to see if anyone was home.
But I didn’t. I was afraid.
I didn’t want the people living there to know who I was. I didn’t want to explain what I was doing there or why it mattered. I turned away, feeling upset.
In English, I told Alex that back when we lived there, the house had been painted a soft yellow with white trim around the windows. It had looked warm, cheerful—cared for. It hurt to see how little love had been given to it since. My grandparents had always taken such pride in their “city house,” updating it constantly, tending to it like a garden.
“Let’s go,” I said.
I tried to catch my breath without showing how I felt. It wasn’t that I didn’t want Alex or Maus to know—I did. But I also wanted them to experience my hometown without being colored by my memories. After all, it is a beautiful place. A historical town that dates back to the year 950. A town worth seeing for its own sake.
I sighed and turned to lead them away.
Psychological Evaluation Report
Subject: Unnamed female child (referred to as “the child”)
Age at time of experiences: 4–5 years old
Context: Based on autobiographical narrative titled “A Sunny Sunday Morning,” describing the child’s early experiences with familial attachment, identity formation, and the emotional disconnection resulting from changes in home and family dynamics.
I. Overview
This evaluation explores the psychological impact of the child’s early environment, specifically her strong emotional bond with her grandparents, the contrasting relationship with her biological parents, and the eventual rupture of that safe environment. The narrative describes an early childhood immersed in warmth, storytelling, and familial protection, followed by a period of emotional dislocation and identity confusion after a significant environmental change.
II. Key Themes and Experiences
1. Strong Primary Attachment
The child experienced an emotionally rich, secure, and nurturing attachment to her grandparents, especially her grandfather. This attachment was not only emotional but also practical and symbolic:
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Her grandfather declared her birth with pride and displayed her to the townspeople.
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Her name was chosen with reverence and mythological meaning, reflecting the elders’ belief in her strength and destiny.
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She was considered the “little girl” of her grandfather and raised primarily by her grandparents.
These actions placed her at the center of a tight-knit emotional ecosystem where she felt valued, special, and safe. The regular storytelling, gentle rituals (like climbing in through the Kunzmann’s window), and the folklore surrounding her birth created a protective narrative identity—a psychological “story” the child used to understand herself and her place in the world.
2. Idealized Self-Concept and “Sunday Child” Identity
The repeated retelling of her birth story, including the sacred designation of being a “Sunday child,” reinforced a sense of divine purpose and uniqueness. This created a foundational belief in the child that she was not only loved but destined for something meaningful. It formed part of her core identity and likely gave her a sense of self-worth and moral clarity from a very early age.
However, idealization can become problematic if disrupted prematurely or without explanation. The belief that one is inherently good and chosen may clash painfully with later rejection, neglect, or emotional displacement.
3. Sudden Environmental and Emotional Loss
Although this chapter focuses on fond memories, it ends with the child revisiting her old home years later and facing the painful reality that:
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The home is no longer hers.
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It has been altered, neglected, and no longer holds the life and warmth she remembers.
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She is an outsider now, unable to knock on the door or reclaim her space.
This represents a secondary trauma: not only did the child experience early loss of emotional safety (hinted at in other chapters, including the death of her grandmother), but as an adult, she confronts how fully that world has been erased. The unchanged crack in the window—left unfixed—serves as a metaphor for unhealed emotional wounds.
4. Identity Confusion
The child’s identity was rooted in the narrative of being a special child—God’s child, a Sunday child, born with purpose and strength. When her role in the family shifted and she was removed from her grandparents’ care, her identity came under silent threat.
This rupture likely resulted in identity confusion, a concept in Erikson’s psychosocial development theory. Between ages 4–6, children are forming their sense of initiative and competence. When trusted figures are removed or emotionally distant, a child may internalize a sense of wrongness or unworthiness, even if the adults never intend to cause harm.
5. Suppressed Grief and Emotional Avoidance
As an adult, the narrator avoids ringing the doorbell. She expresses fear, not just of who might be inside, but of confronting what she has lost. This indicates the presence of long-term unresolved grief and emotional avoidance—hallmarks of complex grief and developmental trauma.
Her reluctance to share her emotional response with her husband and child, despite trusting them, also points to internalized beliefs such as:
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My grief is private
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My past is too painful or confusing to explain
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I must not ruin the moment for others
These beliefs can develop when emotional expression is stifled or invalidated during early life transitions.
IV. Long-Term Psychological Considerations
If left unresolved, early trauma of this nature may manifest in adulthood as:
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Difficulty forming trust-based relationships
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Discomfort with change or impermanence
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A tendency to romanticize or preserve the past as emotionally sacred
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Suppression of grief or avoidance of emotional vulnerability
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Chronic nostalgia tied to identity and belonging
However, the narrator shows signs of emotional resilience and processing. Her ability to reflect deeply, connect past experiences with present emotions, and allow herself to grieve suggests a capacity for integration and healing.