“Have you ever wanted to shave your arms before today?”
She shook her head.
“Not once?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t have to start now.”
“But what if he thinks I’m gross?”
I took the razor from her hand and placed it on the counter.
“Emma, listen to me. There is nothing wrong with your arms. You do not have to remove any part of your body to prove that you deserve affection.”
She nodded, but I could tell my words weren’t enough.
At fifteen, knowing something in your head and believing it in your heart can feel like two completely different things.
I pulled her into my arms.
She rested her face against my shoulder, and I held her until her breathing became calmer.
I thought the worst part of the afternoon was over.
I was wrong.
That evening, Emma came downstairs wearing a thick sweatshirt with the sleeves pulled over her hands.
