He actually smiled.
“I’m willing to come home. At our age, looks aren’t everything. I can overlook the scars.”
I felt something inside me go cold.
Before I could answer, I heard footsteps behind me.
My mother walked into the hallway.
She wore dark jeans and a green blouse. Her hair was pinned loosely at the back.
Her scars were visible.
She wasn’t wearing makeup.
She wasn’t trying to hide.
My father stared at her.
“Laura?”
She looked at him calmly.
“Daniel.”
He seemed to struggle for words.
“You look… different.”
“I am different.”
He glanced at her neck, then quickly looked away.
“How have you been?”
“Well, thank you.”
He shifted his suitcase.
“I was hoping we could talk.”
“About what?”
He forced a smile.
“About the past. About starting over.”
My mother looked at him for a long moment.
Then she asked, “Have you brought your things?”
He seemed relieved that she had noticed the suitcase.
