“No, you got hurt, and you didn’t know what to do with it.”
“I did worse than that.”
At home, Mom hugged both of us without asking questions. Later, Clara came into my room while I was taking off my earrings and stood behind me in the mirror.
“Do you still hate your face?” she asked.
I turned and looked at her. “Some days are harder than others. But no. It reminds me that I survived. And now it reminds me of something else too.”
She blinked.
“That my daughter sees me clearly again,” I finished.
“Do you still hate your face?”
Clara started crying before I did. Then she laughed at herself for crying, and I laughed too.
