“Grandma,” she said quietly, “are you serious?”
I was still smiling. “About going swimming? Very.”
“No, I mean…” She glanced at Tyler, then back at me. “People are going to stare.”
The room went completely still. Not one of them laughed it off. Not one of them said “just kidding.” And the worst part was that Daniel happened to be walking past the room at that exact moment. He slowed just enough to catch it. Megan was right behind him. Both of them glanced in, then looked away without a word.
Nobody corrected her. Nobody said, “Ava, that’s rude.” Nobody said, “Your grandmother can wear whatever she wants.” It was one of those small silences that tells you everything you need to know.
What I Told Myself in the Bathroom Mirror
I smiled, because that’s what women learn to do when they’re wounded in front of family. We smile so nobody else has to deal with the blood.
“Well,” I said lightly, “good thing I’ve survived worse than being stared at.”
Ava looked embarrassed — not enough, but some. Tyler muttered, “I’m just saying…”
I picked the swimsuit back up, folded it neatly, and set it back in my suitcase. “Thanks for the feedback,” I said. After they left, I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at that suitcase like it had personally insulted me. I wish I could tell you I was above it. I wish I could tell you I tossed the swimsuit right back out and marched down to the beach the next morning with my chin up. I didn’t. Their words got in anyway.
That night, I stood in the bathroom in my nightgown and looked at my reflection for a long time. My stomach was softer than it used to be. The skin on my thighs carried a fine map of silver lines. My arms had the looseness that comes from years and gravity settling their usual bargain. My chest wasn’t where it used to sit. My waist had surrendered a while back. My knees looked like they belonged to some other woman entirely.
