few weeks later.
She picked it up. She read the back. She looked at herself in it for a long time.
She’s eleven now. She’s getting to the age where girls start looking in mirrors a lot. Where they start comparing themselves to every picture they see. Where they start hearing voices in their heads that tell them they’re not enough.
I was terrified of that age for her. I still am.
“Mom,” she said, holding the mirror. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“When Dad said you weren’t pretty anymore. Did you believe him?”
I thought about lying. I thought about saying, No, of course not, I always knew he was wrong.
But Ava deserves the truth.
“Yes,” I said. “For a long time, I believed him.”
“Why?”
“Because he was somebody I loved. And when somebody you love tells you something, it gets inside you.” I sat
