He handed it to her.
“Look at your mother.”
“Mark—”
“I’m talking to Zoe.”
She stared at the photograph.
“Look at her mouth.”
Zoe’s eyes filled.
“Dad.”
“That’s your mouth.”
“Stop.”
Mark shook his head.
“No. You’ve had that mouth since the day you were born. Same shape. Same little dip in the middle. When the nurse handed you to me, I remember staring at your mouth because it looked just like hers.”
He looked at the photograph again.
“Your mother was 19 here. Her mouth was one of my favorite things about her face. Still is. I loved the way one side went up before the other when she was trying not to laugh.”
I hadn’t thought about that in years.
Mark pulled out another photograph.
Me at 21, laughing at something outside the frame.
There it was. The same uneven smile Zoe had spent years complaining about in school pictures.
Mark held the photographs beside each other.
“That’s what I’m trying to show you.”
Zoe shoved the photograph back at him.
“Stop!”
Her voice cracked.
I stared at her.
“Why is this upsetting you?”
She looked at me.
Then at my mouth.
And finally said, “I wasn’t trying to look prettier. I was trying to stop looking like you.”
