But I also told them that no insult had the right to control someone’s entire life.
The last time I saw Michael was in the courthouse hallway.
He looked at my new face and whispered:
“You’re beautiful.”
I stopped.
“I’ve always been beautiful,” I replied. “You weren’t the first person to see it. You were one of the first people who made me believe the opposite.”
I walked out of the building without hiding my face.
The wind brushed against my still-sensitive nose, and for the first time, I didn’t turn my head away.
Because the nose I had hated my entire life had never been my flaw.
It was only the scar left behind by the boy I later spent eight years living with as his wife.
