We had discussed treatment options when medically appropriate.
We had also made sure Maya understood that treatment was her choice when
it concerned appearance.
Her body was not a family renovation project.
Still, I could not protect her from every stare.
So when we went to Florida that summer and Maya walked onto the beach
wearing a yellow two-piece swimsuit, I nearly cried.
She stood beside me outside our rental house near Clearwater Beach.
Her hands were shaking.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“I’m tired of hiding.”
I looked at her.
She forced a nervous smile.
“I’ve decided to accept myself.”
Then she lifted her chin.
“I’m beautiful no matter what.”
“You are.”
I said.
“But you don’t have to prove anything today.”
“I know.”
She looked toward the water.
“I want to go.”
So we went.
My ten-year-old son, Liam, ran ahead carrying the small digital camera
he had saved for almost a year to buy.
Photography was his obsession.
Sunsets.
Birds.
Shoes abandoned beside doors.
Half-eaten pancakes.
Anything could become important once Liam looked through a lens.
My sister Gwen had invited herself on the trip.
That description sounds unkind.
It is also accurate.
The vacation was originally supposed to be me, Maya, Liam and my
husband, Noah.
Two weeks before we left, Gwen called.
“I need Florida.”
She announced.
Apparently her social-media consulting business had been exhausting.
She wanted “content that didn’t look like work.”
She booked a nearby room and joined us.
At first, I did not mind.
Gwen could be funny.
She loved the children in the way she understood love.
She bought extravagant birthday gifts.
She remembered school performances.
She also had a habit of treating every gathering like a production.
At the beach:
