At seventy-six, I bought a swimsuit so I could swim with my granddaughter. A cruel comment from my daughter-in-law made me cover up instead. I thought embarrassment was the worst part of that afternoon, until an innocent question revealed that humiliation had started long before we reached the pool.
The moment my eight-year-old granddaughter asked about “the photos Mommy sends to her ladies,” my daughter-in-law stopped smiling.
Amanda’s hand closed around her phone.
Across from us, two women went quiet.
And I sat there in a thick bathrobe on a 90-degree afternoon, suddenly wondering how many people had already seen what I was too ashamed to show in public.
Amanda’s hand closed around her phone.
“What photos?” I asked.
Amanda looked at me.
“Linda, don’t worry about her. She’s just a kid.”
That’s when I knew Sophie hadn’t misunderstood anything.
But to explain why I reached for Amanda’s phone instead of letting the moment pass, I had to go back to that morning.
“What photos?”
***
