There were good days and bad days.
Some mornings, she wore makeup.
Other mornings, she left the house with her scars visible.
At first, she apologized whenever someone stared.
Then she stopped apologizing.
The first time she attended one of my school events, I saw her sitting near the back of the auditorium.
She had almost canceled that morning.
She had changed her blouse three times and spent twenty minutes deciding whether to cover her neck.
But she came.
When I spotted her, I waved so enthusiastically that the girl sitting beside me turned around.
“Who’s that?”
“My mother,” I said proudly.
My mother waved back.
I will never forget her smile.
Years later, when I graduated, she sat in the audience and watched me walk across the stage.
She clapped harder than anyone else.
But when I looked through our family albums, I noticed something heartbreaking.
There were dozens of photographs of me.
