was Grandpa.
My father opened the box on the table.
Inside were old photographs.
He picked up the first one.
I recognized the girl immediately.
It was my mother.
Emily’s grandmother.
At twelve years old.
“Your mother went through the same thing at that age,” my father said. “She was teased too. For years, she was convinced there was something wrong with the way she looked.”
Then my father looked at me.
“That day, Emily was sitting right here crying and telling me she was ashamed of herself. I simply told her, ‘You are beautiful exactly as you are. Your body belongs to you, and other people’s cruel words do not determine your worth.’”
I couldn’t say anything.
The entire story I had built in my mind over the past two days collapsed in an instant.
“Then why didn’t either of you tell me?”
Emily wrapped her arms around me.
