“I still have the same scars, Daniel. The difference is that I no longer look at myself through your eyes.”
He looked at her face.
For once, she did not turn away.
I stepped beside my mother.
“Dad, do you know why I learned makeup when I was twelve?”
He frowned.
“To help your mother.”
“Partly.”
I swallowed.
“I thought if I could make her look like she used to, you might come home.”
His expression changed.
“I didn’t know that.”
“You never asked.”
For a moment, I wanted him to say something meaningful. I wanted him to acknowledge the little girl who had waited at the window, who had checked every car that slowed near our house, who had believed that if she were good enough, her father would return.
Instead, he looked at his suitcase.
“Can we discuss this inside?”
My mother answered before I could.
“No.”
“Just a few nights, Laura. Until I find somewhere to go.”