“You two have been monitoring my selfies?”
“That sounds much worse when you say it,” Graham admitted. “A couple months ago, you stopped asking.”
He pulled out his phone and showed us his lock screen.
Marissa stood in a parking lot, hair blowing everywhere, eyes half closed from laughing.
“You two have been monitoring my selfies?”
Her birthmark was completely visible.
My eyes darted right to her.
“You usually hate pictures like…”
I stopped.
Marissa noticed.
So did Henry.
Don’t miss
That was my part.
Henry spoke gently.
“Mercy, sometimes Mari walks into a room perfectly fine, and you’re already checking who’s staring.”
“I was protecting her.”
“You usually hate pictures like…”
“I know.” His tone softened. “But sometimes you remind her to be afraid before anybody has done anything.”
For years, someone would raise a camera and I would immediately say, “Mari, this light is better.”
Or, “Turn a little.”
Or simply, “You look beautiful, sweetheart.”
“But sometimes you remind her to be afraid before anybody has done anything.”
Marissa looked at me.
“I think I spent so long watching everybody else for you that I forgot you might not need me doing it anymore,” I admitted.
She reached for my hand.
“You were trying to help, Mom.”
I squeezed her fingers.
“I’m trying to learn when you’re not asking me to.”
“You were trying to help, Mom.”
Henry tapped the vanity.
“Which brings us here. I didn’t restore it because I thought you needed to look at yourself differently. I restored it because I hoped someday it could just be furniture again.”
Marissa looked at the mirror.
“I restored it because I hoped someday it could just be furniture again.”
“If you want this back in the garage, that’s where it goes,” Henry added.
Nobody stirred.
Finally, Marissa sat.
She studied herself.
Graham waited.
I nearly said, “You look beautiful.”
I caught the words.
Then Marissa leaned toward the glass.
“Oh my God.”
“You look beautiful.”
