It began on a Friday afternoon when I walked into the bathroom and found Emma sitting on the edge of the bathtub with a razor in her hand.
She was staring at her forearm as if it belonged to someone else.
“Emma?”
She jerked her head toward me.
The razor disappeared into her lap, but not before I noticed the tears shining in her eyes.
“Sweetheart, what are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
Her voice was too quick. Too small.
I stepped closer.
“Look at me, honey.”
She lowered her head.
For a moment, I thought she was going to tell me she had cut herself. My heart began beating so hard that I could hear it in my ears.
Then she asked a question that hurt me in a completely different way.
“Mom, is it normal for girls to have hair on their arms?”
I blinked.
“Of course it is. Almost everybody has body hair, Emma. Why would you ask me that?”
