Marissa stood in a parking
lot, hair blowing everywhere, eyes half closed from laughing.
Her birthmark was fully visible.
My attention immediately went to her.
“You usually hate pictures like…”
I stopped myself.
Marissa noticed.
So did Henry.
That was my part.
Henry spoke gently.
“Mercy, sometimes Mari walks into a room perfectly fine, and you’re already checking who’s staring.”
“I was protecting her.”
“I know.” His tone softened. “But sometimes you remind her to be afraid before anybody has done anything.”
For years, whenever someone raised a camera, I’d automatically say, “Mari, this light is better.”
Or, “Turn a little.”
Or simply, “You look beautiful, sweetheart.”
Marissa looked at me.
“I think I spent so long watching everybody else for you that I forgot you might not need me doing it anymore,” I admitted.
She took my hand.
“You were trying to help, Mom.”
I squeezed her fingers.
