The morning of my wedding, my sister cried before I did.
Lorie stood behind me in the church dressing room with both hands over her mouth, staring at me in the mirror like she could still see the 13-year-old girl I used to be somewhere under the lace and careful makeup.
My dress was ivory with a high neckline and long sleeves, chosen as much for modesty as beauty, though Lorie had insisted on calling it gorgeous until I finally let the word sit in the room without arguing with it.
She could still see the 13-year-old girl I used to be somewhere under the lace and careful makeup.
“You look beautiful, Merry,” she said, tears sliding down her cheeks.
Beautiful. That word still catches in me sometimes. At 13, I had heard a very different word in a hospital bed while half my face burned and every breath felt borrowed.