My sister said my teenage daughter ruined every vacation photo.
Then my ten-year-old son stood up and said one sentence that made her
run out of my house.
My daughter, Maya, was sixteen.
She was born with extensive vascular birthmarks across much of her right
shoulder, upper arm, side and portions of one leg.
They were vivid.
They were visible.
And from the time she was old enough to understand other people’s faces,
she understood that strangers noticed them.
Children stared.
Some whispered.
A few laughed.
Adults were often worse because they believed concern made invasive
questions acceptable.
“What happened to her?”
“Can it spread?”
“Did she get burned?”
“Have you tried removing it?”
Maya learned to hide before she learned long division.
Long sleeves in July.
Jeans at outdoor birthday parties.
Towels wrapped around her shoulders at pools.
She stopped changing in front of classmates during middle school.
She stepped out of photographs if too much skin was visible.
She once deleted seventy-three pictures from my phone because she
thought the marks on her shoulder made her look “wrong.”
That word broke my heart.
Wrong.
There was nothing wrong with my daughter.
Her dermatologist had explained her condition to us carefully.
